


The Con That We Call Love

by kjack89



Series: White Collar AU [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, Alternative Universe - FBI, Betrayal, Con Artists, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content in Chapter 7, Gun Violence, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, White Collar Crime, white collar au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not even a month ago, FBI White Collar unit Agent Grantaire put the notorious conman Enjolras in jail. Now, the FBI needs Enjolras's help, and Grantaire has to deal with a con who he may not trust, but may also be a little in love with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Though nominally a White Collar AU, no real knowledge of the show is required at all. 
> 
> The rest of the Amis will feature in future chapters; this chapter mostly lays the foundation for what will happen.
> 
> Each chapter starts with a flashback to Grantaire on Enjolras's case before he was arrested.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I don't own anything, and have shamelessly lifted the nickname 'Robin Hoodie' from the show itself.

———  _Three Years Ago_ ———

 

“Agent Javert?”

Grantaire hoped that he didn’t sound nearly as nervous as he felt, standing in the doorway of Javert’s office on his first day assigned to the White Collar crimes unit of the FBI. Javert looked up, scowling at him for a moment before gesturing for Grantaire to step into the room. “Agent Grantaire, I presume?” He stood and offered his hand for Grantaire to shake.

“Yes sir, that’s me,” said Grantaire, sitting down in the indicated chair.

Javert peered at him careful before opening the file in front of him. “Formerly worked with the art theft division in D.C., is that correct?” He didn’t wait for Grantaire to respond. “So what made you decide to transfer to the White Collar unit?”

Grantaire forced what he hoped at least approximated a smile onto his face. “Well, I thought a change of pace might be nice. Despite its name, my art degree was not actually put to good use in the art theft unit, and I was advised that it might be more beneficial here, in identifying forgeries and suchforth.”

“So it had nothing to do with the fact that you were romantically involved with a woman named Floreal who ended up being a notorious art thief?”

Though Javert’s voice was mild and non-accusatory, Grantaire still flushed a dangerous shade of red. “Um. Well, that was part of it. It definitely made me think that a change of scenery was probably in order.”

Javert’s frown deepened. “And I suspect that you won’t find yourself in a similar position while you work here?”

Grantaire snorted. “No. I’ve, uh, sworn off dating criminals. More trouble than they’re worth.”

Now Javert chuckled slightly. “Well. Then I look forward to working with you, Agent Grantaire. And I have your first case right here.” He slid a file across the desk to Grantaire, who took it, flipping through it eagerly.

He frowned as he read through the description. “Robin Hoodie?” he asked incredulously. “Even I’ve heard of Robin Hoodie, back when I was in Quantico. The guy’s a legend. Committed a load of confidence schemes and frauds to rob from the rich and give to the poor and disenfranchised. Supposedly he’s on a mission to bring the system down from within.” He glanced up at Javert. “But he’s uncatchable. If the best agents couldn’t catch him, what makes you think I will?”

Javert smiled at him. “Think of it as a challenge, Agent Grantaire.” Grantaire stared at him for a long moment before slowly standing and heading towards the door. “Oh, and Grantaire?” Grantaire turned back, and Javert’s smile grew. “Welcome to White Collar.”

Grantaire made his way to his desk where he sat down heavily, flipping the file open and staring at the only picture of Robin Hoodie they had ever gotten, a grainy security camera picture that showed only a sliver of his face, part of one eye, and a few light-colored curls. Grantaire stared at the picture and sighed, putting his head down on his desk. He was so fucked.

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

When Grantaire’s alarm went off, several things happened at once. He reached for his phone, rolling over in bed, and promptly rolled off of his bed, landing painfully on the floor, where his head decided to remind him of just how much he had had to drink the previous night. At the same time, his roommate Jehan opened his door and leaned against the door frame, snickering at his ungainly position on the floor. “Nice,” he said loudly, too goddamn loudly for this time of morning, and Grantaire managed to sit up far enough to flip him off.

"Fuck you," he said without much venom as he grabbed his phone, automatically flipping to his Google alert for ‘Robin Hoodie’ before remembering that Robin Hoodie had been behind bars for the past month. "Fuck," he groaned, heaving himself off the floor, clutching his bed as the room spun.

Jehan clucked his tongue sympathetically. “That’s what you get for going through, what, almost two bottles of vodka last night, was it?”

Grantaire shrugged, wincing at the pain that stabbed through his head. “I was celebrating,” he muttered, crossing cautiously to his dresser, grabbing what he hoped was clean clothes.

"Oh, is that what you’re calling it?" Jehan asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "Because I remember listening for at least an hour as you went on and on about Robin Hoodie. I’m pretty sure you described just about every inch of him, from — what was it? — his ‘flowing golden curls’ to his ‘asinine red hoodie’ and then his, oh yes, ‘sinfully tight skinny jeans." He crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at Grantaire appraisingly. "If I didn’t know better, it sounds like someone has a crush."

Gritting his teeth, Grantaire managed to make it back to his bed with his clothes, peeling his shirt off as he avoided looking at Jehan. “It’s not a crush,” he growled, buttoning the clean shirt he had just grabbed. “He’s a convicted felon. I’m an FBI agent.”

Jehan rolled his eyes. “Ok, so if not a crush, then at least an obsession. You can’t tell me that the first thing you did on your phone just now wasn’t looking at something about Robin Hoodie.”

"Don’t call him that," Grantaire snapped, sitting down on the bed. "His name is Enjolras. The nickname was a stupid one to begin with. And forgive me for the fact that I spent the better part of three miserable years trying to track his ass down. You’d be obsessed too if you spent as many sleepless nights as I did on his behalf." He glared at Jehan. "Now are you going to stand there while I change my pants too?"

Though Jehan winked, his smile turned into something more contemplative, and as he left, he called over his shoulder, “You’re just bitter because those sleepless nights weren’t spent with him.”

Grantaire groaned and flopped back on the bed. There was not a hint of truth in what Jehan said. Not even slightly. No way in hell.

But images of Enjolras at his trial rose unbidden in Grantaire’s head, and Grantaire groaned again. If only the man wasn’t so goddamn  _attractive_. Of course, that was part of his charm, part of what made him a good con man.

He was gone, though, locked up for five years at least, convicted for only one of the numerous list of crimes he was a suspected of committing, and Grantaire needed to think about other, more important things.

Like the meeting he had with Javert in half an hour, for which, without some kind of miracle, he was going to be late.

* * *

 

"Robin Hoodie," Javert said, sliding the file across his desk to Grantaire, who was still red-faced and breathing hard from running to try and get there on time.

Grantaire glanced down at the file, at Enjolras’s mug shot, and thought that he must be in a very specific version of hell. “What about Robin Hoodie?”

Javert leaned forward. “You caught him. You found him. You followed his trail. Undoubtedly, you know more about him than any other agent in the FBI. We’re going to need to use that.”

Frowning, Grantaire sat back in his seat, looking carefully at Javert, whose poker face revealed nothing. “How so? What does the FBI possibly need my expertise on Robin Hoodie for?”

Javert looked at him for a long moment before sighing. “Do you know about the FBI’s work release program for prisoners with certain skills?”

"Of course," Grantaire said quickly, though his taxed mind was still trying to make the connection between Enjolras and a work-release program. "But what does that have to do with—" He broke off, paling as he stared at Javert in shock, finally realizing what Javert was implying. "You can’t be serious!" Grantaire practically shouted, wincing instantly as his head pounded. "I mean, come on, Javert, do you have any idea how long I spent tracking him down?’

For a moment, he thought he saw Javert’s eyes slide over to the most wanted poster that had hung over his desk for as long as Grantaire had known him. “Oh, I know,” Javert growled. Then he switched his gaze back to Grantaire. “But the fact is that you need the help. You’re getting nowhere on this case, and after the success the FBI’s had with this type of thing before, the higher-ups want to try it again.”

"He’s a  _criminal_ ,” Grantaire snapped, trying very hard not to growl. “What makes you think we can trust him? What makes you think he’ll even help us? His entire MO was about subverting the system, not coming to work for it!”

Javert gathered up the files, his expression firm. “Well, you’ll just have to be extra persuasive when you go propose the idea to him today, won’t you?” He paused for just a moment before adding, “We can’t trust him. And we won’t. He’ll be your responsibility, so you need to remember that most of all. Don’t let him con you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire groaned and debated whether he could curl up in the fetal position and just die. He was beginning to severely regret his hangover, especially since he now had a long drive to the jail ahead of him, and once he got there, that stupid smirking blond with a face that was even more criminal than he was. And not only would he have to talk to him, but he would have to offer him a deal that would make him Grantaire’s responsibility and a pain in Grantaire’s ass for another five years.

In other words, Grantaire was royally fucked.

* * *

 

Grantaire looked up as the guard escorted Enjolras into the room, and the breath did not hitch in his throat upon seeing him. It  _didn’t_. His collar just seemed too tight all of a sudden, that’s all. And his chest seemed to shrink about two sizes.

It was a perfectly normal reaction.

Besides, it wasn’t as if Enjolras looked good or something. He was in prison; no one looked good in prison. Never mind the fact that his blond curls looked as perfect as they ever did. Never mind the fact that the orange jumpsuit somehow managed to look good on him, and orange wasn’t even a color that should have gone with Enjolras’s coloring. Never mind the fact that he sat down in the chair across from Grantaire like a goddamned king taking his throne and gave Grantaire a smile that looked like sex.

Perfectly. Normal. Reaction.

“Agent Grantaire.” Damnit, even his  _voice_  was sexy. “To what do I owe this most monumental of pleasures?”

Grantaire smiled tightly at him. “Just checking up on my favorite case. After all, it’s not every day that an FBI agent is able to bring in one of the biggest con men in the history of the agency, one who’s committed dozens of crimes.”

Enjolras leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “ _Allegedly_  committed,” he corrected, though he grinned at the accusation. “Even so, I admit that I’m surprised to see you here, of all places. I got the impression from my trial that you didn’t particularly want to see me again. Hence why you testified against me.”

Frowning, Grantaire said in a low voice, “If you’ll recall, it was in part my testimony to the way you didn’t resist arrest when you were caught that lightened your sentence, possibly significantly. So you can be just a little bit grateful.”

“Grateful?” Enjolras snorted and he rolled his eyes. “I’d be a hell of a lot more grateful if I wasn’t sitting in a federal penitentiary right now. And besides, you’re avoiding the question - what are you doing here, Agent Grantaire?”

Grantaire sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before sliding the file folder across the metal table. “The FBI is currently investigating a series of confidence schemes that have stolen several hundred million dollars from a variety of very wealthy people. Thus far, we have very little information on him. Dark hair, dark eyes, tall, thin. Handsome. Not a whole lot to go on. So the Bureau was hoping to perhaps enlist your help in finding who this con man is.”

Something twisted on Enjolras’s face and he shoved the file back across to Grantaire without looking at it. “Why would I help you?” he snapped. “Why would I care about some con man ripping off a bunch of rich people? To me, that’s the way the world should be, the rich having what they haven’t earned stripped away from them. That’s always what I was… _allegedly_  trying to achieve.”

Sighing again, Grantaire said in a low voice, “Not every con has as… _honorable_  of intentions as you. We have reasons to believe that this particular criminal is working in conjunction with a larger organization, an organization which may have hurt a lot of the people that you’ve tried to help.”

Enjolras just crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I still don’t see a good reason for me to help you.”

“You’ll be released from jail if you agree to cooperate. Into my custody. You’ll work for the FBI as a confidential informant, helping us with cases, and if you do your job and don’t screw up, you’ll be able to rejoin the real world as soon as your sentence is up.”

“So that’s it.” Enjolras’s tone was dry, and he raised an eyebrow at Grantaire, leaning back in his chair. “That’s your big song and dance, your big, convincing argument? I sell out everything I believe in for, what, better food and accommodations? You’re wasting your time.” He stood, calling out, “Guard. I’m ready to go back to my cell.”

Grantaire stood as well, as something on his face flickered. “I’m not going to try and convince you if you don’t want to help. Just…look at the file, would you? Take some time with it, see if you can see something we’re not. Please.” When Enjolras just glared defiantly at him, Grantaire added in a quieter tone, “I thought you believed in justice. That’s all I’m asking you for.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you believe in? Anything?”

Grantaire met his gaze squarely. “I believe that you’re a better person than you’re trying to lead me to believe. I believe that you care, a lot, about the state of the world. And I believe that you have the capacity to be able to help us solve a lot of crimes and do a lot of good.” He crossed to Enjolras and handed him the file. “You might just say that I believe in you.”

Their hands touched for a brief moment, and Grantaire instantly flushed slightly, pulling his hand away as quickly as he could. “Guard?” he called, struggling to control his voice. “We’re done here.” He glanced back at Enjolras. “If you change your mind, call me.”

Then he left, leaving Enjolras behind, file in hand, staring after him with a strange look on his face.

* * *

 

At three o’clock in the morning, Grantaire’s phone rang, and he reached for it without lifting his head off the pillow. “Who the fuck is this?” he growled into the phone, not looking at caller ID.

“Is that any way to greet your newest confidential informant?” The voice was wry and tinny, but Grantaire would have recognized it anywhere.

He sat straight up in bed, ignoring the way his head swam, still under the influence of way too much whiskey from the night before. “Enjolras? Why are you calling me? How did you even find a phone to use at this hour? You’re not allowed to have a cell phone in jail.”

"Right, I’m gonna plead the fifth on the last part and just say that you don’t want to know." There was a brief pause before Enjolras said, quietly, “You told me that if I changed my mind, I should give you a call. Well…”

“You mean you’re going to work for us after all? Help us with the case?” Grantaire tried not to sound as eager as he felt (tried to push down the images suddenly surfacing in his head of Enjolras in a suit and tie, walking around the office with him, going to get a coffee with him, going to crime scenes with him…). “What changed your mind?”

Enjolras was silent for a moment before saying off-handedly, “Let’s just say that I was reminded that sometimes the best way to change the system is to work within the system.”

“Uh-huh.” Grantaire drew his knees up to his chest, frowning slightly. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re going to end up getting me into a lot of trouble over the course of this arrangement?”

Chuckling softly in Grantaire’s ear, Enjolras told him, “Probably because I will. But I imagine you expected as much.”

Grantaire’s grip on the phone tightened and he tried not to think of exactly what he had imagined expecting from Enjolras. “Right. Anyway. Did you look over the file? Did you see any details that can possibly help us track the guy? Something in his MO, maybe? Or a clue we’ve missed?”

“I can give you more than that,” Enjolras said, sounding far too satisfied with himself. “I can give you a name.”

Grantaire almost dropped his phone. “A name?”

“Yeah. His name is Montparnasse.”

“Montparnasse,” Grantaire repeated, scrabbling at this nightstand for a piece of paper to write this down on. “Great. Dare I ask how you knew that?”

Enjolras laughed, low and sweet, and Grantaire closed his eyes at the sound. “How about we discuss it in person tomorrow when you come spring me from jail?”

Grantaire laughed as well, a wry chuckle. “Fine. Then I’ll see you tomorrow. And you can tell me all about it.”

“Sounds good…boss.”

The line went dead a moment later and Grantaire flopped back against his pillow, groaning loudly. This was going to be a very long five years, and Grantaire was so immensely  _fucked_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _think_ I'm going to updating this on a Monday/Thursday schedule? Maybe? Not that this affects any of you, but I just thought I'd put it out there haha.

———  _Three Years Ago_  ———

 

"Where are we at?" Javert asked gruffly, sitting in the front of the conference room with all the agents assigned to the Robin Hoodie case.

Grantaire glanced around nervously before asking hesitantly, “Have we considered the possibility that he’s not working alone?”

One of the other agents snorted. “No way,” he scoffed. “Robin Hoodie works alone. His entire MO is based on working by himself. It wouldn’t make any sense for him to have an accomplice.”

Shaking his head, Grantaire leaned forward, his hand pressed against Robin Hoodie’s file. “I don’t necessarily mean an accomplice. We know most of the crimes are committed by an individual, and I’m not disputing that evidence. But we also know that Robin Hoodie is incredibly intelligent, charming, and charismatic, and uses that to his advantage in his cons. I somehow can’t believe that a guy like that could possibly work alone. Even if they don’t help him directly, he’s got friends who help him out. He has to.”

"Do you have any evidence of this?" Javert asked calmly, ignoring the other agent who was sniggering slightly.

Grantaire shook his head again. “No, sir. But it’s a feeling in my gut that I can’t shake.”

The other agent laughed out loud. “Sounds more like you’re pursuing a crush than a wanted fugitive.”

Though Grantaire flushed scarlet, he determinedly told the agent, “My top priority is bringing Robin Hoodie to justice. And I think that this is the best avenue in order to do so.”

Clearing his throat loudly, Javert forestalled any further conversation by saying firmly, “At this point, it’s as good a lead as any. Run with it, see if you can connect him to any other crimes or criminals.”

The agents stood, though they paused when Javert said casually, “Oh, and Agent Grantaire?” Grantaire turned back. “Good job.”

Grantaire blushed and nodded his thanks before escaping back to his desk, already prepared to search for connections between crimes. He expanded the parameters beyond white collar crimes, focusing on any crimes that purported to take from the haves in favor of the have-nots.

When the computer had finished its analysis, Grantaire began searching for commonalities. One name seemed to come up over and over again, like a specter that haunted a variety of crimes, and he read it out loud, trying to make sense of it. “Les Amis de l’ABC.” What the fuck did that mean?

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

Needless to say, Grantaire did not get a lot of sleep after Enjolras’s late night call, and he was sure that it showed. He scowled at the prison guard and took another swig of coffee, waiting for Enjolras to be remanded into his custody.

When he saw Enjolras, he froze with the cup of coffee halfway raised to his lips. He had already changed into his civilian clothes, and Grantaire had forgotten how good Enjolras looked in skinny jeans with a sinfully tight t-shirt. He was sure he was staring, but he couldn’t seem to look away, especially as Enjolras bent over to tie his shoelace, his perfect ass facing Grantaire directly.

"Jesus  _fucking_ Christ,” Grantaire swore under his breath, draining his coffee and all but slamming it down on the guard’s desk. “Alright, time to put your tracking anklet on,” he said in a louder voice.

Enjolras stood slowly and frowned at Grantaire’s coffee cup. “Starbucks?” he asked scornfully.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and gestured for Enjolras to put his foot up on the chair, pulling the anklet out of the box the Marshals had given him. “Like I’m going to let a convict lecture me about my coffee choices,” he scoffed. He bent and snapped the anklet in place, careful not to let his hands linger unnecessarily on Enjolras’s skin. “Alright, there are three keys to this anklet. I have one, my boss has one, and the US Marshals have one. If you do anything whatsoever to make me regret taking you into my custody, I will send you back to prison faster than you can blink. Understood?”

"Understood," Enjolras said, smirking as he fired a mock salute at Grantaire. "What’s the radius on this thing, anyway?"

Grantaire shrugged. “You’re in luck. The Marshals have given you two miles. Should be plenty of space for you to not get in any trouble whatsoever.”

Enjolras snickered, though at Grantaire’s glare, adopted a far more sober expression. “Yes, sir. No trouble at all. I look forward to serving out my debt to society in your custody.”

Grantaire’s expression soured. “Just get your ass in the car. I’ve got more important things to deal with today than babysitting you.”

"Did you tell the FBI what I told you last night?" Enjolras asked, almost eagerly, as he followed Grantaire to the car.

Nodding, Grantaire opened Enjolras’s door for him. “I passed the information on first thing this morning. Are you going to tell me how you know who Montparnasse is?”

Enjolras shrugged and waited until they were on the road before saying quietly, “He’s part of an organization known as Patron-Minette. I assume you’ve heard of them?”

"Heard of them?" Grantaire repeated, incredulous. "Of course I’ve heard of them. They’re one of the biggest crime syndicates in the city! Hell, maybe the country. We’ve been after a way to take them down for at least a decade." He shot Enjolras a look. "The better question is what  _you_  know about Patron-Minette.”

Scowling, Enjolras crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Plenty,” he practically spat. “They were a target of mine once upon a time. It didn’t go well.”

Grantaire frowned. “You tried to take Patron-Minette down? Why? I thought you were all about subverting the system or whatever the hell you call it.” He tried to keep his tone from sounding too questioning, tried not to let Enjolras see how much he was honestly curious about him.

"There’s subverting the system and taking from people who deserve it, and then there’s hurting innocent people." Enjolras’s voice was quiet but determined. "What I  _allegedly_  did falls into the first category. What Patron-Minette does…”

He trailed off, but Grantaire understood, and he nodded. “They hurt someone. Someone you knew?” Enjolras shook his head, his lips tight, and Grantaire decided not to press the matter. “So you discovered Montparnasse while you were doing recon on Patron-Minette. But how did you know it was him from the file?”

Enjolras shrugged. “I recognized his style. He and I had scoped out the same scores a few times. It was a race to see who could get it first.”

"So you’re rivals," Grantaire mused, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "Who normally ended up getting the score, you or him?"

Smirking, Enjolras said nonchalantly, “Nice try, but even if I did steal anything, I’m not about to confess it to you. I’m not an idiot.”

Grantaire laughed. “Ah well. It was worth a try.”

They settled into silence as they got into city traffic, and after a surprisingly short amount of time, Grantaire pulled up in front of a dirty-looking apartment building, which he looked at dubiously. “Well, here we are,” he said doubtfully. “The Marshals picked this spot. The rent is the same as what it costs to house you in jail, so…”

Enjolras shrugged. “I’m sure it will be fine,” he assured Grantaire, opening the car door and stepping outside. He followed Grantaire into the building and was surprisingly quiet as Grantaire got his key from the front desk. They both headed upstairs and Grantaire unlocked the door, frowning at the flimsy lock.

They stared around the tiny, grimy room. “Well,” Enjolras said, stepping into the room. “I’ll guess I’ll, uh, I’ll get settled.”

"You can’t stay  _here_ ,” Grantaire told him, frowning deeply. “This place is disgusting and I’m fairly certain it’s not safe.”

Enjolras laughed lightly. “It’ll be fine,” he assured Grantaire, smiling wryly at him. “I’ve lived in worse places. Or have you forgotten the shithole I was living in when you arrested me?”

Grantaire’s nose wrinkled at the memory. “True,” he allowed, “but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to let you stay here. I’ll lose sleep worrying about you getting shot in the middle of the night or something. I do not trust that front desk guy at all.”

Raising an eyebrow, Enjolras asked dryly, “Did you lose sleep worrying about me getting shived in jail?”

Grantaire tried very hard not to blush, because he may or may not have asked the prison to send him updates the first few days Enjolras was in jail for that very reason. “That’s not the point,” he blustered, not meeting Enjolras’s eyes. “Look, I have a friend who doesn’t live too far from here who has a guest room that I know for a fact no one is living in. Let me call him and see if he’s consider letting you stay with him until we can find you more suitable accommodations.”

Enjolras shrugged and didn’t make any further argument against it, sitting down on the edge of the bed as Grantaire stepped into the hall. He was back within minutes. “He said it wouldn’t be a problem. Now come on.”

Shrugging again, Enjolras stood. “Lead on.”

Fifteen minutes later, they stood on the sidewalk in front of a huge house, three stories with a huge terrace. “Are you putting me up with the bourgeois?” Enjolras scoffed, staring up at the house, something dark in his expression.

"The owner is an old friend of mine," Grantaire said in a low voice, "and he’s being gracious enough to take you in. Do not screw this up, or I swear to god…"

Enjolras held up his hands defensively. “I know, I know, it’ll be back to jail for me.” He sighed and put his hands in his pockets. “Let’s get this over with.”

They rang the doorbell and waited until a dark-haired man about their age answered the door, beaming at both of them. “Grantaire!” he exclaimed, pulling him into a hug. “How have you been?”

"Good, good," Grantaire laughed, clapping him on the back. "Courfeyrac, I’d like you to meet Enjolras."

Enjolras looked at him warily for a few moments before reluctantly holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he muttered.

Courfeyrac smiled at him as he shook his hand perhaps more enthusiastically than necessary. “Nice to meet you as well,” he said cheerfully before turning back to Grantaire. “Are you headed back to the office? Because I can help him get settled.”

Grantaire shot Enjolras a concerned look, relaxing slightly when Enjolras waved him off. “Go,” Enjolras told him, smiling crookedly at him. “We’ll be fine.”

Shrugging, Grantaire told Enjolras, “Alright, then I’ll leave you in Courfeyrac’s capable hands. I’ll stop by after work to see how you’re doing and to give you details about tomorrow.” He glanced at Enjolras’s skinny jeans and worn Converse. “Oh, and you may want to hit up the store to get some work appropriate clothes. You’re not working on your own anymore.”

With a quick thanks to Courfeyrac, he left, leaving Courfeyrac and Enjolras standing in the foyer. “So. What do you have to say for yourself?” Courfeyrac asked firmly, a cautious tone in his voice, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he regarded Enjolras carefully.

Moving closer so that he could lean in and whisper in Courfeyrac’s ear, Enjolras told him in a grave voice, “I have come to sleep with you.”

Courfeyrac instantly cracked up, reaching out to pull Enjolras into a hug. “It has been way too fucking long. Pontmercy’s never going to live that one down, is he?”

"Nope," Enjolras laughed, returning the hug just as enthusiastically. "God, Courf, it’s fantastic to see you. When I saw the house, I couldn’t believe it. What the hell are you doing back at your parents’ old place? Don’t tell me you’ve given up on everything we fought for."

"Of course not," Courfeyrac scoffed. "But after you got arrested, the heat turned up for all of us, and Combeferre thought it might be a good idea to go our separate ways until things cooled off. And, well, turns out the de Courfeyrac name still carries some weight, so."

Shaking his head, Enjolras punched him lightly in the arm. “Should’ve known you’d be the one to escape back to the good life at the first chance you got. Is that how you met Grantaire?”

Courfeyrac rubbed his arm where Enjolras had punched him and pouted dramatically. “No, I’ve known Grantaire for years. He was working art thefts in DC and at the time I was working an angle in the DC art scene. He seemed like a good guy to get to know, and he and I hit it off. I ended up not going through with the DC job so I decided to keep in touch.”

“Did you know he was the one who arrested me?” Enjolras asked carefully, a slight edge to his voice.

Courfeyrac snorted and shook his head. “No. He didn’t talk much about what cases he was working on after moving here, and even then he only ever referred to you by your nickname, Robin Hoodie.” Enjolras grinned at the name he had been given by the FBI before they knew his real identity. “Or by the nickname he gave you, Apollo.”

The smile faded from Enjolras’s face, replaced by a scowl. “Apollo?”

“Yeah. Apparently when he got his first full view of you, he was, uh, a bit enraptured by what he saw.” Courfeyrac’s tone was far too gleeful, and Enjolras just shook his head and rolled his eyes. “But hey, now you’re going to be working with him, so I can’t imagine that’s going to be awkward for you at all.”

Enjolras frowned. “The only thing awkward about it is how I’m going to continue my work from before without the FBI or Agent Grantaire catching on to what I’m doing.”

Courfeyrac laughed out loud. “Right. No awkward sexual tension or anything. Of course. Eye on the prize as always.” When Enjolras did not deign to reply to that, Courfeyrac sighed and asked, “Do you know what case you’re going to be working on?”

Enjolras perked up instantly. “Yeah I do. And I need you to contact Combeferre, get him over here as soon as possible. Warn him about FBI surveillance, you know how he gets.”

Nodding, Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow at Enjolras. “And what exactly should I tell Combeferre when I call him, other than the fact that you’ve shown up rather unexpectedly at my house?”

Enjolras gave Courfeyrac a savage grin. “We’re going after Patron-Minette.”

Courfeyrac stared at him, completely taken aback. “Seriously? Not starting small straight out of prison, are we?”

“I figure why bother doing anything halfway?” Enjolras asked blithely, grinning at Courfeyrac’s flummoxed reaction. “By the way, do you have any clothes that I can borrow?”

Courfeyrac frowned critically at him. “Pontmercy was about your size and he left a bunch of clothes here that you can have.” He grinned widely. “You’re gonna hate them, though. But they should fit the FBI’s dress code.”

Enjolras scowled. “Don’t tell me they’re suits.” Courfeyrac’s grin widened. “Damnit, Courf, I fucking hate wearing suits, you know that.”

Laughing, Courfeyrac started up the staircase. “Well, it’s either that or go naked. Now c’mon, I’ll show you to your room.”

Though Enjolras sighed and rolled his eyes, he willingly followed Courfeyrac up the stairs, feeling a grin start to spread across his face. Les Amis were back in business.


	3. Chapter 3

———  _Three Years Ago_  ———

 

Grantaire thought his eyes might go cross-eyed from staring at the same case files, trying to find something in between the typed lines, something that everyone else had missed, something that might lead him towards Robin Hoodie. One of the other agents stopped by his desk, rapping on the desk with his knuckles. “Are you coming out for a drink with us?” he asked Grantaire, grinning. “We all know you’re the best person to take out drinking, since you know all the bars to go to.”

“Nah, I can’t,” Grantaire told him, not looking up from the case file. “I’ve got work still to do, but take the boys to that new bar that just opened up on 49th, would you? I’ve heard good things.”

Agent Bahorel sighed. “It’d be better if you were coming with us,” he told Grantaire. “You used to come out with us all the time. I feel like we never see you anymore, like this Robin Hoodie has taken over your entire life.”

Grantaire looked up, surprised. “It’s not my  _entire_  life,” he protested. “I mean, I still go out…ish. I mean, this job is kind of life-consuming, isn’t it? So it’s unsurprising that I would, you know, spend a lot of time on this.”

“Maybe,” Bahorel told him with a shrug. “It can be hard to separate the job from your life, and I know that.” He hesitated, then added, “Just make sure that this is worth spending your life on.”

Nodding, Grantaire watched silently as Agent Bahorel left with the other agents, to head to the bar Grantaire had recommended or wherever. Then he turned back to his case file, his cheeks burning. Maybe Robin Hoodie wasn’t worth it. But as he read over all the things that Robin Hoodie had done, the crimes he had committed, sure, but also the anonymous donations he had given to various charitable organizations, amounting to billions of dollars, the number of people he had helped recover from various white collar crimes perpetrated against them, he couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, this kind of thing was something worth dedicating one’s life towards.

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

When Enjolras made his way downstairs for breakfast the next morning, it was with a definite reluctance in his step, a reluctance explained by the way Courfeyrac clapped his hands delightedly and took a picture, ignoring the fact that Enjolras flipped him off. “You look  _gorgeous_ ,” Courfeyrac cooed.

Enjolras frowned down at the crisply pressed three-piece suit that he was wearing, complete with a red silk tie. It fit him well, that had to be said, just a little tight across the shoulders, but really, he didn’t understand what the appeal of this kind of the clothing was, other than making people look like clones of the system, and he told Courfeyrac as much.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes as he took a sip of his coffee. “Just wait until Grantaire sees you. Then maybe you’ll understand the appeal of that kind of clothing.” It was Enjolras’s turn to roll his eyes, and Courfeyrac laughed and held up the pot of coffee. “You want some?”

“Yes, please,” Enjolras said relievedly, grabbing a mug. He took a sip as if the coffee was the most precious liquid on the planet. “Good God, this is delicious.”

Smirking, Courfeyrac leaned back in his chair. “Pretending to be the pampered prodigal son returning has its benefits.” At Enjolras’s raised eyebrow, Courfeyrac hastened to add, “Fear not, I’m only abusing the system on behalf of those who need it.”

“Oh really?” Enjolras said skeptically.

“Of course,” Courfeyrac answered, grinning cheekily at him. “I’m giving it to you, and you’re the one going to save the world, right?”

Enjolras just sighed and shook his head, draining his coffee, when a knock sounded on the door. Glancing at Courfeyrac, Enjolras told him dryly, “Probably Grantaire to take me in to work. I doubt he trusts me enough to come in on my own.” Courfeyrac nodded and stood to get the door, and Enjolras grabbed his wrist. “Remember, you don’t know me.”

Though Courfeyrac nodded, his brow furrowed, and he warned Enjolras, “It’s going to get very exhausting pretending that I don’t know you. I’m bound to slip up.”

Shrugging, Enjolras told him, “Hopefully you can keep up the charade until I can get out of here.”

Courfeyrac froze, frowning at him. “What do you mean, get out of here?” Enjolras met his gaze squarely, and Courfeyrac’s eyes widened. “You’re going to run? Why? Where are you going to go? What are you going to do?”

Enjolras spread his arms wide, frustrated. “I don’t know, but that doesn’t matter right now! What would you rather have me do, stay here? Work for the FBI and bring their brand of so-called ‘justice’ to the world instead of doing actual good and helping people? I’m going to take down Patron-Minette, and then yes, I am going to run. What else is there for me?”

“Just…don’t rush into anything,” Courfeyrac told him after a brief hesitation. “You have the chance to build a life here, and I think that you’ve been doing this for so long that you’ve forgotten what that’s like.”

With that, he went to answer the door, leaving Enjolras staring sullenly at the plate of croissants. Courfeyrac returned momentarily, Grantaire in tow, his eyes widening when he saw Enjolras in the suit. “Enjolras,” Grantaire said, suddenly breathless. “You look…wow.”

Enjolras flushed and stood, grabbing a croissant to take with him. “Right. Um. Mr. de Courfeyrac was kind enough to let me use some clothes from his previous houseguest, so, uh, will this meet the FBI’s dress code?”

Grantaire was still staring at him, and it was only after Courfeyrac coughed under his breath that he looked up, blushing just as much as Enjolras. “Oh, um. Right. Yeah. Definitely. Should, uh, should meet regs just fine.” To hide his embarrassment, he waved the case file in his hand. “We should go, though. We’ve got a case.”

Frowning, Enjolras said slowly, “Well, of course we’ve got a case. Patron-Minette.”

Something on Grantaire’s face flickered. “Right, only we’re not working on the Patron-Minette case today.”

“What do you mean we’re not working on the Patron-Minette case?” Enjolras’s voice was tight, and fierce, something dangerous simmering in his words.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “You’ve read over all the case files just as much as I have. Unless you have new information for us…” He trailed off and Enjolras shook his head sullenly. Grantaire’s tone softened. “Look, let the FBI do what it does best in hunting these guys down, especially now that they have a name to work with. But in the meantime, we have a jewelry store robbery to attend to.”

Enjolras made a face. “A jewelry store robbery?”

Grantaire grinned at him as he grabbed a croissant from Courfeyrac’s table, toasting him with it. “Yeah. It’ll be fun. Come on.”

* * *

 

“You and I have very different definitions of fun,” Enjolras told him dryly, arms crossed as they stood in the center of the jewelry store, looking at the vault that had been opened and ransacked. Most of the display cases were intact; it appeared the thief had only gone for what jewels were stored and not on display.

Shaking his head, Grantaire elbowed him in the ribs. “Come on, at least this can’t be as boring as prison, right?” The store owner, who was standing next to Grantaire, gave them both startled looks, but they both ignored her. Grantaire gestured towards the vault and told Enjolras, “The thieves broke in around 1 am, or at least that was when the alarm was tripped. NYPD response time was around seven minutes—”

“Typical,” Enjolras snorted, and Grantaire studiously ignored him.

“So the thieves got in, broke into the vault, and stole all the jewels, all without appearing on the security cameras.”

Enjolras glanced at him, surprised. “They weren’t on the cameras?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Nope. We looked over the footage this morning. No sign of them.” he gestured at the store. “If it were you, and you were the one stealing the jewels, how would you avoid the cameras?”

Enjolras flashed his most charming smile at the store owner, who all but swooned (not that Grantaire didn’t as well, but he at least kept it better hidden. He hoped). “I wouldn’t,” Enjolras said simply. “I would walk right through the center here like a giant middle finger to the entire—”

Grantaire smacked his arm before he could get too far into his rant. “Play nice,” he growled.

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras looked at the security cameras. “Well, there are pretty obvious blind spots.” His eyes narrowed and he took a step forward. “Too obvious of blind spots, if you ask me. I think the security cameras have been tampered with.”

"Inside job?" Grantaire asked, intrigued.

Enjolras shrugged. “Inside job, or…” He turned back to the store owner. “Did you have an electrician do any work here in the past couple weeks?”

She nodded, looking surprised. “Six days ago. We needed to switch out some of the lighting.”

"Easy access to the security cameras, especially if they cut power to do the lighting," Grantaire mused. To the store owner, he said, "We’re going to need everything you have on this electrician." Turning to Enjolras, he clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work."

Enjolras shrugged. “I’ve seen something similar done before.” His expression soured as he looked at the rows of glittering diamonds still in the display cases. “Do you have  _any_  idea how many people just one of those stones would feed?”

Sighing, Grantaire told him easily, “I really don’t. And you know what else? Our thief probably doesn’t either, and when he fences them, it’s going to be to line his own pockets, not to help out the poor and disenfranchised. So maybe cut me a little slack for doing my job here.”

Of course, Enjolras didn’t, and as they headed outside, he said heatedly, “But that’s just it. Desperation forces people to take drastic measures, including turning to a life of crime in order to survive in a system that constantly tries to keep them from moving forward in the world.”

“I’m not denying that for some people, that seems like their only option,” Grantaire told him, holding the car door open for Enjolras before crossing to the driver’s seat. “But there’s a difference between the average guy who holds up a gas station because he’s desperate for cash and one of these criminals. These guys make  _millions_  if not  _billions_  of dollars by perpetrating frauds or just plain stealing it, and you know damn well that there’s no desperation there. Or maybe there is, but only so that they can buy another mansion or a new Maserati.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “The proportion of crimes like that are so low in comparison to the low-level crimes of desperation, yet there’s an entire unit of the FBI dedicated to keeping the rich from losing their riches, while beat cops are forced to deal with increasingly tight budgets, where arrests are easier than prevention.”

Grantaire’s grip on the steering wheel was loose and relaxed; perhaps against his better judgment, he was  _enjoying_  this. “But allowing high end criminals to get away with it is not the way to deal with those problems. Firstly, you’re talking about completely different jurisdictions, and secondly, keeping those rich people happy gets more donations to law enforcement, money that we aren’t getting from the government anymore.”

“That’s just it, though!” Enjolras snapped. “The system is  _broken_. Those rich people should be paying those donations in taxes that can go to a variety of social safety nets designed to keep people from committing those crimes in the first place, and in that instance, you wouldn’t need the money to go to law enforcement anyway!”

Chuckling slightly, Grantaire pointed out, “But again, not catching criminals is not a way to solve  _that_  problem. That’s a whole other set of issues far outside the parameters of this job.”

Through clenched teeth, Enjolras told Grantaire, “Of this job, perhaps, but it’s not outside the parameters of basically good humanity, now is it?”

Now Grantaire laughed out loud. “Oh yes, let’s have the criminal lecture me on basic humanity, shall we?”

“ _This_  criminal has done everything he has done for the sake of people who have nothing, and if that’s not good humanity…”

Enjolras’s voice was hard, and Grantaire held his hands up, placating, as they were at a red light. “I’m not saying you aren’t a good human, Enjolras, you know that. But you have to admit the irony in what you’re arguing.” Enjolras closed his mouth in a tight line, and Grantaire sighed. “Or else we can forget the whole thing and move back to business, since we’re almost back to the office.”

Though Enjolras still frowned, he also relaxed slightly, leaning back in his seat. “So now that we’re done with our part of this case, what do we do now?”

“Well, I’ve got a  _fascinating_  mortgage fraud case waiting for me,” Grantaire said cheerfully.

Enjolras made a face even worse than the face he had made at the jewelry heist. “Mortgage fraud?” he repeated incredulously.

“Sure, why not?” Grantaire asked easily.

Enjolras turned the full power of his glare on Grantaire, who quickly looked away. “Um, maybe the fact that I’ve never worked on any mortgage frauds from either side of the law?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Maybe not, but you’ve done cons before. You have an idea of how criminals think.”

Enjolras scowled at him. “No, I know how  _I_  think. Most of the criminals are the ones in the cush offices with the comfy white collar jobs, committing frauds against the innocent millions who trust them with their retirement and pensions.”

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire paused and took a deep breath before saying with forced patience, “I mean, unless you have any better ideas…”

There was a long pause, then Enjolras said slowly, “Well, I’ve been giving some thought to Patron-Minette, actually, and I think I may remember someone that I forgot previously.” At Grantaire’s look, Enjolras added quickly, “There was someone else. Someone…who once worked with…well, that’s not the point. Anyway, in addition to Montparnasse, you should be on the lookout for a guy who goes by the name of Le Cabuc.”

* * *

 

Enjolras opened the door to Courfeyrac’s house and sighed, tugging his tie down and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt as he closed the door behind him. The lower level of Courfeyrac’s was dark, and Enjolras assumed that Courf was out, doing…whatever it is the bourgeois did nowadays. He started to head upstairs, then stopped, thinking that he heard something in the study, and he stepped into the room, flicking the light on and freezing for a moment before realizing who exactly was sitting in the armchair, glaring at him. “For fuck’s sake, Combeferre, were the theatrics necessary?”

Combeferre stood, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he stared levelly at Enjolras. “You don’t call, you don’t text, and I find out you’ve been working for the FBI. Tell me, what am I supposed to think?”

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras slumped into the armchair opposite Combeferre’s. “I don’t know, Ferre, that I wouldn’t turn my back on everything I believe in?” he snapped. “Let me guess, you think I’ve ratted you out to the Feds?” At Combeferre’s raised eyebrow, Enjolras sighed and told him honestly, “I would never do that. Even if they let me go today. There are some things worth jail time, and protecting my friends is one of them.”

At these words, Combeferre relaxed minutely, sitting down in the chair as he regarded Enjolras carefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a suit before.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes again. “I have to meet the FBI dress code,” he said dryly, “and apparently that means wearing suits, despite my predilection towards jeans and hoodies.”

“You’re already becoming a suit,” Combeferre said, vaguely horrified, and Enjolras laughed out loud.

“Come on, Ferre,” Enjolras said, plaintively. “You  _know_  me. You’ve  _known_ me for years, and you know that I would never cross over into  _that_  sphere. No matter what offer the FBI gave me. I may dress the part, but you know better.”

Combeferre examined him closely. “I know that I used to,” he said slowly. “But now, seeing you in that suit, who knows what you’re capable of?”

Enjolras leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “I got the FBI to start tracking down Le Cabuc today, so what do you think I’m capable of?”

Now Combeferre settled back in his seat, his eyes gleaming. “I see that we have much to talk about,” he said, only barely containing what sounded like a gleeful tone. “Let’s start with Le Cabuc, and what exactly you did to get the FBI on his trail, and perhaps more importantly, what we’re going to do when they find him.”


	4. Chapter 4

———  _Two and a Half Years Ago_  ———

 

Months slipped away as Grantaire worked on a variety of cases, though he always came back to Robin Hoodie whenever he struck again. At first Grantaire was frustrated that more progress wasn’t made on the Robin Hoodie case, but as the weeks passed, he couldn’t help but admit that he was beginning to feel grudging admiration for Robin Hoodie, for his tenacity, for his ability to evade capture without even leaving a trail of hints about who he was, and for the fact that, despite everything and every law that he broke, he seemed like a genuinely good person.

He made the mistake of saying that out loud in one meeting, when Javert had asked for a progress report on a variety of the long term cases the White Collar unit was working on. One of Grantaire’s colleagues snorted. “Yeah, if you just forget everything illegal he’s done, the man could practically be a saint.”

“I didn’t say that,” Grantaire insisted, scowling. “But look through his file.” He slid the case file across the table, pointing at it. “He steals and cons only those who can afford it, who are covered by insurance anyway. And nine times out of ten, it comes out later that these people have made their money by illegal means! And he never uses violence if he can help it.” He stared around the table and shrugged. “I’m not saying that we shouldn’t look for him or arrest him when it comes to it. I’m just saying…”

The other agent pushed the file back towards Grantaire. “All that is very well and good, but you  _can’t_  forget the things that he’s done that makes him what, by very definition, we would call a  _bad_  person.”

Agent Bahorel took pity on Grantaire, leaning forward across the table. “There are various degrees of ‘bad’,” he pointed out carefully.

“There’s no room for gray areas in this field,” Javert interrupted, frowning at all of them. “Certainly we can agree that murder is a far graver crime than a white collar offense that hurts no one in the long run, but the fact of the matter is that our job is to investigate and find those who break federal law.” He stood, gathering his papers together. “You’re all dismissed. Let’s try to crack down on some of these cases this week.”

Everyone nodded and dispersed, though Agents Bahorel and Feuilly lingered behind, waiting for Grantaire. Feuilly told Grantaire quietly, “I understand what you’re saying about Robin Hoodie, but don’t you believe in bringing him to justice?”

Grantaire just shrugged moodily, gathering Robin Hoodie’s case file together. “I don’t believe in anything,” he said, a little bitterly, grabbing the file and heading back to his desk. “But I do think that there are multiple kinds of justice in this world.”

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

The next day, Grantaire met Enjolras outside of the FBI office, surprised and gratified when Enjolras pressed a coffee into his hands, using the distraction to hide how his eyes once again almost bugged out of his head at how gorgeous Enjolras looked again today. “I haven’t forgiven you for drinking Starbucks,” Enjolras told him, a little sternly, “and this café on the way here serves all fair-trade, all organic coffee. Besides, it’s gotta be better tasting than the swill the FBI brews.”

“I take offense at the assumption that the FBI can’t brew good coffee,” Grantaire told him, though at Enjolras’s raised eyebrow, he amended, “though it is pretty shitty normally. Thanks.”

Enjolras inclined his head slightly and sipped from his own coffee. “So, any specific reason you wanted to meet me outside instead of going straight upstairs?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Can’t an FBI agent just want to meet his favorite CI outside the office for a quick cup of coffee and a chat?” Before Enjolras could even say anything, Grantaire made a face. “No, he definitely cannot, because that sounds ridiculous. Sorry. Anyway, yes, there is a reason. We got you set up with an actual desk that I wanted to take you to so that you don’t get lost.” Enjolras snorted and Grantaire smiled slightly. “I also wanted to introduce you to Agents Feuilly and Bahorel. They’re part of my team and we’ll be working closely with them. They’re the ones who have started running down leads on Montparnasse and Le Cabuc.”

At that, Enjolras seemed to perk up slightly, and willingly followed Grantaire into the building and up the elevator. “Well, this is you,” Grantaire said cheerfully, gesturing to an empty desk crowded into a corner, an old computer sitting on top along with a stack of case files. “Oh, and these are some of the cases that you’ll be working on. I thought you might want to get acquainted with them.”

Enjolras looked mournfully at the mound of work that awaited him and Grantaire laughed, joined soon after by two other voices. “Consider it our way of saying ‘welcome to White Collar’,” the taller of the two told Grantaire, grinning at him as he stuck out his hand to shake. “Agent Bahorel.”

“Yeah, consider it our gratitude for three years of hunting you down,” the other snorted, also holding his hand out. “I’m Agent Feuilly.”

Giving them his most charming grin, Enjolras shook first Bahorel then Feuilly’s hands. “I’d apologize for the run around, gentlemen, but then I’d be lying.”

Grantaire snorted. “Yeah and heaven forbid you lie to the FBI.” He gestured at Bahorel and Feuilly. “We’ll leave you to get settled into your desk for the moment. If you two will come with me to my office for a minute…”

“You have an office?” Enjolras asked, clearly torn between amusement and surprise. “I wasn’t aware they gave subpar FBI agents their own offices.”

Glaring at him, Grantaire said snippily, “It was my reward for catching one of the most notorious white collar criminals of our generation.” He leaned in to tell Enjolras in a whisper, “Just remember, I locked you up once and I can do it again.” He headed away, Bahorel and Feuilly following close behind, and Enjolras stared at his retreating back for a long moment before settling down at the desk, pulling the first case file towards him and flipping it open with a sigh.

* * *

 

“So what have you dug up on Le Cabuc?” Grantaire asked, reclining in his chair and switching his gaze between looking up at Bahorel and Feuilly and looking out at Enjolras, who was hunched over his desk.

Feuilly sat down after sharing an amused look with Bahorel. “Not a whole lot, to be entirely honest. The name’s almost certainly an alias, as should be no surprise, but we couldn’t find a whole lot beyond that.”

Grantaire frowned, drumming his fingers against his desk. “What about connections with Patron-Minette?”

Sitting down as well, Bahorel shrugged heavily. “None that we could find. I’m still digging through some old connections that I have with an underground betting ring on illegal boxing matches and my contact there, Bossuet—”

“The one with the worst luck ever?” Grantaire interrupted, grinning. “I always thought it was funny that he ran a gambling ring.”

Bahorel waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. Hilarious. It’d be less funny if that ring didn’t take me for half of what I was worth while I was undercover, and Bossuet won’t even return my money.” He scowled for a moment, then shook his head. “Anyway, that’s not the point. You remember his partner, Joly? He's something of a blackmarket doctor. If you need a doctor’s services without having to go to a hospital, you can call on him. I figured he might know something of Patron-Minette and any potential connections, but…”

He trailed off and shot a look at Feuilly, who squirmed almost guiltily, avoiding Grantaire’s gaze. “What is it?” Grantaire demanded.

“We couldn’t find any connection between Le Cabuc and Patron-Minette,” Feuilly said slowly. “But we did find a connection between Le Cabuc and Enjolras.”

* * *

 

Enjolras scowled and pinched the bridge of his nose, all but throwing the case file back onto the stack in front of him. He sighed loudly and heard what sounded suspiciously like a laugh hastily turned into a cough and looked up to see Grantaire smiling down at him. “Rough first day, huh?” Grantaire said sympathetically. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the monotony.”

Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “It’s not the monotony that I’m concerned with. It’s the sheer extent of human greed.” He sighed and rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. “So yeah, I guess you could say it’s been a rough first day.”

“Well, it’ll probably only get worse,” Grantaire told him bracingly, his smile slipping. “Care to accompany me into my office? I have something to discuss with you.” He paused and hesitated before adding, “About Le Cabuc.”

Enjolras instantly stood to follow Grantaire into his office, his disgruntled look smoothing into something almost vicious. “What did you find?” he demanded, sitting down and staring expectantly up at Grantaire, who sighed and sat down slowly, not meeting Enjolras’s eyes.

“Not a whole lot, to be entirely honest,” Grantaire told him carefully, his gaze flickering up to examine Enjolras for a moment before darting away. “As a matter of fact, we found no definitive link between Le Cabuc and Montparnasse or Patron-Minette.”

His words fell heavily between them, and Enjolras stared at Grantaire, a muscle working in his jaw and a look on his face as if he was desperately sorting through a number of things in his head. “Oh, really?” he said finally in a disinterested tone.

Grantaire sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, looking contemplatively at Enjolras. “You can cut the crap, you know,” he said conversationally. “We may not have found any connection between Le Cabuc and Patron-Minette, but we found a definitive connection between Le Cabuc and Robin Hoodie.”

“Oh.”

The word was quietly spoken but contained a multitude of things: part shame, part regret, part righteous fury, part calculation, and part defiance. It was matched by the mix of emotions that flitted across Enjolras’s face. Grantaire sat up, opening the case file on his desk. “Yeah. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, but I wouldn’t mind you filling in the blanks. You were on the long con two years ago, were you not?”

“Allegedly,” Enjolras corrected softly, his expression oddly closed as he stared down at Grantaire’s desk, clearly lost in memory.

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire repeated, “Fine,  _allegedly_. You were  _allegedly_ after the Saint-Denis fortune and were  _allegedly_  working for months to integrate yourself into the family so that you could  _allegedly_  steal it. But Le Cabuc got there first, didn’t he?” Enjolras didn’t say anything, staring mutely at desk. “It was the only time I’ve ever seen you use violence,” Grantaire told him, quietly. “This man — this Le Cabuc — he got to the money first, and he killed the house’s butler in the process.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t like to hurt people,” he said, quietly. “Stealing money, stealing artifacts — it’s not about hurting people, because it doesn’t. They have insurance. They get it all back. But it hurts the system. The more money ripped from within the system and doled out to those who need it, the better off things are for everyone. But this — Le Cabuc — he hurt someone. He  _killed_  someone. And all because Montparnasse knew I was after the Saint-Denis fortune.” There was a long silence before Enjolras added, a little wryly, “Allegedly, anyway.”

“You may not like violence, but you tried to hurt Le Cabuc that day, didn’t you?” Grantaire asked, his voice equally quiet. “Ballistics recovered two unidentified slugs as if someone had fired at Le Cabuc as he took off.”

Nodding, Enjolras ran his hands through his hair, gripping the blond curls roughly as if tempted to rip them from his head. “I wanted to kill him,” he said in a low voice. “He had ruined everything I had worked for, and it wasn’t about the money. I don’t give a  _fuck_  about the money. But he killed someone completely innocent for nothing more than personal gain. I wanted to kill him. But I missed.”

Grantaire leaned forward. “And when you didn’t shoot him then, you tried to go after him, didn’t you? That’s when you discovered his connection to Patron-Minette, and  _that’s_  why you tried to take Patron-Minette down, isn’t it?”

Enjolras shrugged. “A friend of mine found a potential connection, a potential name for who Le Cabuc might really be. I got a little sidetracked going after Patron-Minette, and I never got a chance to take Le Cabuc down.”

“So, what, you wanted the FBI to track him down for you so that you could do after him?” Grantaire asked, a little incredulously, and at Enjolras’s silence, sighed heavily. “Did you honestly think that we wouldn’t figure it out?”

Shrugging again, Enjolras said nonchalantly, “I figured it was worth a try.”

Grantaire frowned. “Enjolras, the FBI will track Le Cabuc down and bring him to justice for the crimes that he committed. We have more than enough to go on in the Saint-Denis case, which is still considered an active investigation. We’ll bring him to justice for all the crimes that he committed.”

Enjolras looked up, his eyes flashing. “You and I — we have  _very_  different ideas of what constitutes justice,” he growled in a low voice. “An innocent man died because of me, and if you think that Le Cabuc getting a jail sentence in a cushy minimum security prison for the next twenty-five years is enough to clear that blood off of my hands, you’re wrong.”

“So what did you think to do, then?” Grantaire asked, frustrated. “Were you going to get his location from us just so that you could go after him yourself?” When Enjolras glared back at him, tight-lipped, Grantaire swore under his breath. “Are you fucking kidding me? Enjolras—”

“ _Don’t_.” Enjolras stood, his expression fierce. “You found out, it’s not happening, do just drop it.” He stared at Grantaire for a long moment, then turned away. “Can I leave now?”

Grantaire stared at him, surprised. “Yeah,” he said, the word seeming to stick in his throat. “Yeah. That’s fine. Just, uh — make sure you’re here on time tomorrow. We have more work to do.” Enjolras nodded, jerkily, and Grantaire added, tentatively, “We’re not done discussing this, either. I don’t want this between us, not with the fact that we’ll be working together for the next five years and—”

Enjolras interrupted. “It’s fine.” He turned back to half-smile at Grantaire, though the smile didn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll be fine. We’re fine. And I’ll see you tomorrow, Agent Grantaire.”

Then he was gone, leaving Grantaire sitting at his desk, case file open in front of him, more troubled than he had felt since the date printed on the file on his desk.

* * *

 

As soon as Enjolras was outside the FBI building, he had his phone up to his ear, Combeferre’s number already dialed. “Ferre. It’s me.”

“How did things go with the suit?” Combeferre asked.

Enjolras laughed dryly. “Pretty terribly, actually. He figured out what we were after.”

Combeferre was quiet for a moment before saying grudgingly, “The suit must be smarter than you give him credit for.”

“Whatever,” Enjolras said dismissively. “Can you come over tonight? We need to start planning.” He paused to glance back up at the FBI building. “We’re going to have to deal with Le Cabuc on our own.”


	5. Chapter 5

———  _Two and a Half Years Ago_ ———

 

Grantaire was rather rudely woken by his cellphone blaring at five o’clock in the morning, and when he answered it, all Agent Feuilly had to say to have him wide awake was simply, grimly, “Robin Hoodie.”

Which was how Grantaire found himself blinking blearily at the house of one of the more affluent families in the city. The well-coiffed man giving his statement to Agent Bahorel was a jewel dealer, and it appeared that Robin Hoodie had broken into the house early that morning and stolen the latest shipment of jewels. “How do we know it was him?” Grantaire asked Feuilly again, his voice scratchy from the early morning.

“The housekeeper got a pretty good look at him,” Feuilly told him. “Same standard description as before — blond hair, blue eyes, tall, thin.”

Grantaire sighed and drained his coffee, glaring up at the house before transferring his glare to Feuilly. “We need actual details, not the same standard description every time! Something we can actually use to pin this crime to him, and ‘blond-haired, blue-eyed’ sure as hell isn’t going to cut it.”

Feuilly shrugged, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “This was a quick in-and-out job, not a long con. Almost as if he needed money quickly or something. We’re lucky that the housekeeper caught as good a look of him as she did. Besides, if you want details, how does this sound — he  _apologized_.”

This immediately peaked Grantaire’s interest. Robin Hoodie was eminently unapologetic of the crimes he committed in the name of justice. “He apologized?” Grantaire repeated incredulously. “To, who, the housekeeper?”

“Nope. He left a note.” Feuilly couldn’t keep the grin off of his face at the shocked look on Grantaire’s face and he handed him the bagged note, written hastily on the back of a torn piece of paper.

Grantaire’s fingers trembled as he held the note up, looking at the sloppy but still legible scrawl. “ _I am sorry_ ,” the note read. “ _Trust that the money goes to a good cause. —R.H._ ”

“So let me get this straight,” Grantaire said slowly, staring at the piece of paper in the evidence bag. “Our guy never even so much as bats an eye at stealing millions upon millions of dollars, conning people out of more money than most people could ever even dream of, but he writes a personal apology for grabbing, what, a mere $750,000 in jewels?”

Feuilly shrugged. “That’s where things also get weird. The jeweler  _just_  got the shipment in yesterday. Meaning that Robin Hoodie not only got the information but also arranged a heist over a mere $750,000 in jewels, all in the space of twelve hours.”

Whistling low under his breath, Grantaire shook his head. “And all without leaving any physical evidence behind. Jesus Christ, who the  _fuck_  is this guy?”

Bahorel joined them, shaking his head as well. “That is the million dollar question. Or more accurately, the $756,278 question. And unfortunately, I don’t think we’re going to find any answers here. This was a smash and grab, nothing more.”

Grantaire stared up at the building, torn between grudging respect for Robin Hoodie’s talent, and frustration that they were no closer to catching him now than before. Feuilly nudged him companionably. “Hey. He’s got to slip up at some point. And this one just proves that even Robin Hoodie can get a little desperate. Meaning sooner or later, he’s going to mess up. And when he does…”

Nodding, Grantaire turned away from the building. “When he does, we’ll be there to catch him.”

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

For all intents and purposes, Enjolras appeared to be a model criminal informant, at least on the surface. The arrest rate for the white collar unit went up significantly after he started working with Grantaire, and they solved a number of cases, ranging from as simple as a mortgage fraud ring to art forgery to a hacker who made off with close to a billion dollars. The Bureau formally congratulated them both on making a great team, and both Enjolras and Grantaire smiled stiffly at the news.

Below the surface, it was a drastically different story. Enjolras was still seething over Grantaire’s realization of what he was after, setting back his own plans significantly. And Grantaire was not, despite what Enjolras may think in his more bitter moods, stupid, and thus pulled back slightly from Enjolras, trying to give him space.

The only thing this did was give Enjolras ample opportunity to brood and to plan.

Of course, Grantaire was doing some planning of his own. While he and Feuilly were running down any possible leads on Montparnasse, Bahorel was assigned Le Cabuc, running down his own leads through his own contacts.

Which was why when Bahorel knocked on Grantaire’s office door one day, a serious look on his face, Grantaire was not surprised. “Come in,” he said, not looking up from the file he was going over. “And close the door after you.”

Bahorel did so, settling into the chair across from Grantaire. “I need permission to go back undercover,” he said without preamble, and Grantaire blinked up at him.

“Your leads didn’t pan out through the usual channels?” he asked, sighing as he closed the case file. “I don’t know if I can get an undercover op approved for this. We’re technically not really doing this on the books at the moment. It’s more one of those ‘oh, while tracking down Montparnasse, we happened to stumble on this other wanted criminal’ kinds of things, you know?”

Leaning forward, Bahorel said urgently, “I understand all that, and I know that I’ll basically be taking the risk myself. But my contact won’t talk to me unless I meet with him in person, which you know I can’t do unless…”

Grantaire nodded and completed, “Unless you’re undercover, yes.” He frowned at him. “And you’re sure you’re willing to take this risk on yourself, knowing that I can’t approve a tactical team for backup?”

Now that it was clear Bahorel had won Grantaire over, he leaned back in his seat, grinning broadly at Grantaire. “Dude, you  _know_  that I can kick just about anyone’s ass who threatens me. I’ll be fine.” At Grantaire’s raised eyebrow, he sighed and said in a more serious tone, “Agent Grantaire, I acknowledge the risk that I am putting myself in and place no liability on the Bureau, etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam.”

“See, I knew your half-assed attempt at a law degree would come in handy one day,” Grantaire teased. “Fine. You have my permission.” He opened the file back up but then glanced back at Bahorel. “And whatever you do, do  _not_ get in trouble, understood? Because I am not bailing your ass out. Again.”

Bahorel shot him a salute. “Yes, sir,” he said, smirking, and he stood and left, pretending not to notice as Grantaire stared after him, troubled.

As Bahorel headed out, stopping by his desk only for a moment to grab his keys and a few other things, Enjolras also watched him go, his expression contemplative, and once Bahorel was out the doors, Enjolras pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and texted Combeferre.

[To: Combeferre]  _Hey where are you at?_

[To: Enjolras]  _At Bossuet’s. Why what’s up?_

[To: Combeferre]  _You’ve got company headed your way._

* * *

 

Bahorel leaned against the bar and gave Bossuet his most winning grin. “C’mon, Laigle. Joly’s expecting me.”

Bossuet scowled at him. “Be that as it may, as I already told you, Joly’s with a patient right now, so you’re just going to have to sit your ass down and wait for him.”

“Sheesh, Bossuet,” Bahorel laughed, sitting down on the bar stool. “Musichetta lets you behind her bar and, what? All the power goes to your head?” He leaned forward and winked conspiratorially. “How many glasses have you broken while you’ve been back there?”

Though Bossuet tried to keep glaring at him, he broke, snorting with laughter as he polished a glass. “I’ve already broken three,” he confessed. “Musichetta told me that she’s going to dock it from my paycheck, meaning that at this rate, I’m going to end up owing her money.” He finished cleaning the glass and set it back on the counter, looking vaguely relieved when it didn’t shatter. “Have you been doing much boxing lately? We’ve missed you around here.”

Bahorel laughed. “Oh, I’ve been busy lately,” he said with a shrug. “I wouldn’t mind coming back sometime, if you’ve got room for me.”

“Sure,” Bossuet said easily. “You can come back anytime, if you give me fair warning and I can bet on you. Are you going to bring your friend back? That guy you brought that one time…what was his name? R?”

If Bossuet noticed Bahorel freezing slightly, he didn’t say anything, and Bahorel quickly laughed it off anyway. “Oh, I don’t think so. I think he got out of the boxing world. Found religion. Or at least, a god he would pledge his life to.”

Bossuet frowned and was about to comment on that, but another guy down the bar laughed and broke in to the conversation. “I’ve yet to meet a god that I’d pursue above money won from anything I’m good at.”

Raising an eyebrow, Bahorel grinned easily at the guy. “To be fair, you haven’t met the golden god that my friend has.” He leaned toward him and offered his hand. “My name’s Bahorel.”

After only a second’s hesitation, the guy took his offered hand and shook it. “Combeferre,” he said, his eyes glinting. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Bahorel was about to respond, but Joly stuck his head out from the back room and said loudly, “Bahorel, I can see you now.”

Grinning at both Combeferre and Bossuet, Bahorel said loudly, “Excuse me, gentlemen,” before following Joly into the back room.

Once he was in the back room, Bahorel’s shoulders relaxed and he rubbed his eyes tiredly. “You still haven’t told Bossuet who I am?”

Joly raised an eyebrow at him as he sat down at his desk, reaching into his desk to pull out a bottle of whiskey and pouring them each a shot. “Are you really complaining?” he shot back, sliding the shot glass across to him. “He didn’t have any need to know, and I’m sure it’s better for you that he doesn’t know.” He raised his shot in a toast and drained it before pouring himself another. “So tell me, what can I do for the FBI?”

* * *

 

Combeferre made small talk with Bossuet at the bar, all while keeping a close eye on the door to Joly’s office, trying to control his patience as the time ticked by. Finally, just when Combeferre thought Bossuet was going to notice that he had been glaring at the door for the past several minutes, the door opened, and Bahorel strolled out, laughing with Joly and winking at him before heading out, pausing only to wave at both Bossuet and Combeferre as he went.

Joly turned to Combeferre, his expression slipping from jovial to steeley as he jerked his head to show that Combeferre should come in. Combeferre followed him in eagerly, but before he could even say anything, Joly told him, “Whatever it is you’re about to ask, my answer is no, Combeferre.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

Joly raised an eyebrow at him. “You mean you’re not going to ask me for Le Cabuc’s current location?”

Combeferre froze in place, staring at Joly for a long moment before shrugging. “So you’re not going to give me his location? Do you even know his location?”

“Oh, I know it,” Joly told him darkly. “I get all kinds of people in here, and most of them are quite talkative when they want to be. But no, I am not going to give you his location. I’m not stupid.”

Leaning forward, Combeferre said quietly, “What would be stupid would be not giving me his location, especially since you know why I want it. It’s for Enjolras.”

Joly fixed him with a frown and a stern look. “I know it is,” he said simply, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Which is exactly why I won’t give it to you. Not because I don’t want to help Enjolras, because you know the opposite is true. But because I’m afraid of what he would do with that information. And I won’t be the one to put blood on his hands.”

“Blood’s already on his hands,” Combeferre argued hotly. “What Le Cabuc did — what happened because of Enjolras — that’s on Enjolras’s hands. And he’s just trying to take care of that before Le Cabuc can do anything more.”

For a long moment, Joly met Combeferre’s gaze squarely, but finally, he shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, honestly, his voice quiet. “I would follow Enjolras wherever he goes, and you know that. But I won’t let him go down this path. Not if I can prevent it.”

Combeferre stared at him for a long moment as well, then nodded his head jerkily. “Right. Well. If you’re decided, there’s no point in me trying to argue with you.” He stood and offered his hand to Joly, who shook it cautiously. “Enjolras appreciates your continued support.”

Then he left, pulling his phone from his pocket and texting Enjolras.

[To: Enjolras]  _Joly won’t give up his location to me, but I’m pretty sure he gave it to Bahorel._

* * *

 

Enjolras’s eyes followed Bahorel as he came back into the office and headed straight to Grantaire’s office. He watched as Grantaire marked something in a file. He watched as Grantaire put that file into his desk and locked the drawer.

When Grantaire came out of his office and made his way to Enjolras’s desk, Enjolras pretending to be working studiously on whatever case was in front of him. Grantaire cleared his throat. “I’m about to head out for some lunch with Bahorel and Feuilly. Did you, uh, did you want to join us?”

It was the first time since their blowup over Le Cabuc that Grantaire had asked Enjolras to join them for something as relaxed as lunch, and for a sudden moment, Enjolras felt a twist of regret at what he was about to do. Still, he forced a smile on his face and said, “No, I’m in the middle of something right now, so I’m going to take my break a little later.”

Grantaire nodded, though his expression became unreadable for a second. Then, abruptly, he said, “Two and half years ago, you stole a little over $750,000 in jewels.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him. “Allegedly,” he said smoothly, though he was more intrigued than anything.

“What did you need the money for?”

Enjolras looked at him strangely. “Acknowledging that this is not an admission of guilt or a confession to a Federal agent, a friend — well, an acquaintance, really — her kid was sick and she needed some money to take care of it. She didn’t have insurance and the procedure cost almost $100,000, which was more than I had in our operating expenses at the time. So I  _allegedly_  did what I had to.”

It was Grantaires turn to give him an odd look. “But you stole almost eight times the amount that you needed.”

Shrugging, Enjolras told him, “I knew that if I was fencing them quickly, I couldn’t haggle for the best possible price. Besides, I donated the rest of the money in her daughter’s name to children’s leukemia research.”

Something in Grantaire’s tone softened as he asked, “She had leukemia?”

“She did,” Enjolras confirmed, though he frowned. “But if I may ask, what is this sudden conversation about? Not that I don’t enjoy talking about my alleged crimes, but…”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Nothing. I just…” He trailed off, his expression turning unreadable again. “I think that you’re a better person than you sometimes give yourself credit for. And I think this is an example of that.” He paused for a moment before adding, “You know that you can trust me, right?”

Enjolras frowned, something hidden in his eyes as he glanced warily at Grantaire. “Honestly?” he said, his tone serious as he leaned forward. “I don’t really trust anyone.”

Grantaire stared back at him for a long moment before nodding and forcing an awkward laugh. “Right,” he said, quickly. “I mean, I suppose if I was in your position, I wouldn’t trust anyone either.” He rapped his knuckles on Enjolras’s desk and told him, “Well, we’ll see you after lunch, then.”

Enjolras stared after him for a long moment, debating internally over whether he should do what he was about to do. But the memory of an innocent person dying because of him was a powerful motivator, and once Grantaire, Bahorel and Feuilly were all gone, Enjolras casually strolled up to Grantaire’s office, making sure he looked like he was supposed to be there as he jimmied the door and slipped inside.

It was a matter of minutes before he had broken into Grantaire desk, copying down the pertinent information from the file Grantaire was keeping on Le Cabuc. He felt another brief pang of guilt as he closed the drawer and slipped out of the office, Le Cabuc’s address written on a post-it note tucked into his jacket pocket, but as he texted Combeferre, his guilt was replaced by burning resolve.

[To: Combeferre]  _Tonight._


	6. Chapter 6

———  _A Little Over Two Years Ago_  ———

 

Grantaire pressed the bridge of his nose and counted slowly to ten, trying to keep his temper despite the hangover pounding in his head and the witness he was trying to interrogate, who may have been the most useless of all time, since her description of Robin Hoodie had thus far been “blond-haired, blue-eyed, and  _totally_  hot, you know?”

“Right,” he said briskly, interrupting her mid-speech. “So, Robin Hoodie — the man who went by Max while he worked here for your family — was he particularly close with anyone? Anyone on the staff? Or any family members?”

She shook her head, eyes wide. “Oh, no,” she told him, her tone serious. “Max was a nice man, but he kept to himself. I mean, he might have had some friends among the staff, but none that I ever know of. I mean, I never even knew the man to go on a date with anyone!” She said the last part as if it was completely scandalous for someone to not want to date, and added in a hushed tone, “But maybe he was one of those homosexuals, you know?”

Grantaire smiled tightly at her and privately thought that the fact that this family had been taken for several million dollars was probably not such a bad thing. “Alright, well, if you think of anything that can possibly help our investigation, let us know, would you?”

He turned away without waiting for her answer, seeking out Feuilly in the crowd, who looked like he was just finishing up his interview, looking almost as exasperated as Grantaire felt, and Bahorel, who had managed to avoid having to interview anyone by volunteering to get coffee. He spotted Bahorel at the edge of the scene and sidled over to him, grunting at Bahorel’s greeting. “Anyone give you any good clues for finding Robin Hoodie?” Bahorel asked cheerfully, smiling at Feuilly as he joined them.

Grantaire’s murderous glare was answer enough. “The idiot called himself Max Robespierre and no one found that suspicious,” he ground out, accepting the coffee that Bahorel handed him and draining half of it in one swig. “I mean, Jesus Christ, is the man that good of a con artist or are people really just that stupid?”

Feuilly and Bahorel exchanged glances and wisely chose not to say anything, though from the sounds of it, Feuilly turned a snigger into a hastily concealed cough. “Come on,” Bahorel said bracingly. “We’ll drive you back to the office. You can sit in the back and sleep and we won’t even tell anyone.”

That idea sounded wonderful to Grantaire, and so he curled up in the backseat of Bahorel’s unmarked car, and closed his eyes, sighing deeply. After a few moments, clearly when they had deemed him to be asleep, Bahorel asked quietly, “What do you think he’s most upset about? Not catching Robin Hoodie or that Robin Hoodie isn’t interested in sex?”

“I think he’s most upset that he doesn’t know if Robin Hoodie is gay or not,” Feuilly muttered.

Grantaire groaned loudly. “I can still hear you, you fucking assholes,” he complained, kicking the back of Feuilly’s seat. What’s sad was, they weren’t even all that wrong. He huffed a sigh and closed his eyes again, wishing for not the first time that Robin Hoodie would just save him the headache and turn himself in, even if it made it so Grantaire didn’t have the satisfaction of arresting him himself.

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

Enjolras bent over the table in his room, the post-it note with Le Cabuc’s address on it sitting on top of the schematics for the building, which Combeferre had sent him earlier that day. He frowned and marked down one of the exits that seemed likely as a backup escape root, and scribbled something down on the small cribsheet he was planning on taking with him.

Normally he would have memorized all of these escape routes before trying to pull any job, but he was running short on time, and knew that it was more important that he do things well than doing everything the way he normally would. Besides, Combeferre would undoubtedly be able to help him when he got here, which hopefully would be soon.

As if in answer to his thoughts, a knock sounded at his door, and Enjolras stood, though he didn’t turn his attention away from the building plans, instead calling distractedly, “Who is it?”

“It’s Agent Grantaire.”

Enjolras froze, gaping at the door for a long moment before calling in a voice he hoped didn’t sound too strangled, “Um, just give me a minute, would you?” He quickly grabbed the schematics and the post-it note and placed them into a manilla folder, which he put underneath the near-empty tea kettle on his kitchen table. Then he wiped his hands quickly on his jeans and went to open the door, adopting what he hoped was an approximation of his usual cocky smile. “Agent Grantaire. To what do I owe this utmost of pleasures?”

Grantaire smiled at him as well, an overly-saccharine smile, and didn’t wait for Enjolras to invite him in as he pushed past him. “Oh, there’s been a development in the Le Cabuc case, and I thought I’d swing by on my way home from work to share it with you.”

Heart pounding, Enjolras blinked at him and tried to look surprised. “A development in the Le Cabuc case?” he asked quickly, closing his door. “What kind of development?”

“Well, we found out Le Cabuc’s most recent address,” Grantaire told him, heading over to Enjolras’s kitchen table and looking down at it with an interested expression on his face. “And then someone broke into my office and copied down that address.”

Before Enjolras could stop him, Grantaire had slipped the manila folder from underneath the tea kettle and opened it, turning to look at Enjolras with a raised eyebrow. “Well?” he asked, sounding resigned.

Enjolras blushed, but shrugged defiantly. “I didn’t think you were going to share it with me,” he said, almost flippantly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “And my sources were unable to get it from your sources, so there were only so many options that I had.”

“And you thought I wouldn’t notice?”

Shrugging again, Enjolras told him honestly, “I didn’t really think you’d be paying that much attention.”

Grantaire stared at him and chuckled dryly, running a tired hand over his face. “You seriously underestimate how much I pay attention to you.” He dropped his hand to rest it lightly on the file. “And apparently I underestimated how much you wanted to go after Le Cabuc. So tell me, what exactly were you planning on doing?”

“The address is within my radius,” Enjolras replied coolly. “So you can draw your own conclusions on that.”

Swallowing hard, Grantaire looked down and took a long moment as if trying to compose himself. When he looked up, his expression was carefully blank. “Why are you doing this?” he asked in a quiet voice. “What exactly do you hope to accomplish by going after him?”

Enjolras frowned slightly. “I’m hoping to kill Le Cabuc before he can do any more damage.”

“And you don’t think that’s a little extreme?” Grantaire asked loudly. “I know you, Enjolras, I know just about everything there is to know about your criminal life, and you’ve  _never_  been one to use violence. So what is it about this? Why are you insisting on going through with this?”

Looking at him for a long moment, Enjolras shook his head, wondering what the best way was to try and explain everything about this. “What Le Cabuc did was frightful,” he told Grantaire finally, his expression tight. Grantaire nodded sympathetically and started to speak, but Enjolras cut him off. “What I tried to do — what I  _want_  to do — is horrible, and I know that. But insurrection, revolution, rebellion, all the things that I have robbed and conned and broken the law for — they must have discipline. This is not about anarchy, this is not about committing crime for crime’s sake. If anything, cold-blooded murder is even more of a crime here than under other circumstances.”

Grantaire swallowed hard and nodded, following Enjolras’s argument, even if he did not fully understand it. “Still,” he said, in a low voice. “Discipline does not mean that you must kill him. Let him be taken in — let him serve his time. That is discipline enough.”

Enjolras just shook his head and turned away. “No,” he said in a low voice. “No, it’s not enough. Justice is enough, justice that I already granted by pursuing him and trying to take him down. And that justice must be carried through.”

“So you would become a murderer in the name of ‘justice’?” Grantaire demanded, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he stared at him stonily. “You would throw everything you’ve worked on away to do this?”

Whirling around to face him, his eyes blazing, Enjolras snapped, “I have already condemned myself, and I came to terms with that fact a long time ago. The moment I shot at him, the moment I knew that I needed to kill him, to try and make this right, I threw away whatever chance there was for a peaceful resolution to this.

Grantaire shook his head, his own expression tight as he crossed to him. “But that’s just it,” he said, reaching up to hold Enjolras’s face between his hands, to force him to listen. “You are not fighting some rebellion here, Enjolras. This is not a war. No one has to die.”

“This is a war!” Enjolras told him, his voice quiet, though he made no move to step away from Grantaire. “This is a war over what’s right, and what’s wrong. What I have done has always been in the name of what’s right, and I stand by that. But I will not let someone run free after corrupting that message.”

His eyes took on a faraway look and he placed his hand over Grantaire’s against his cheek. “There will come a time when that’s no longer true, when the balance in the world has been restored, when…when death is no longer needed, when love is the only future. I believe that day will come, when there will only be harmony, light, joy, life and love.” He shook his head slightly, his eyes clearing, and his expression hardened. “And I will give up whatever I have to in order to make sure that it does.”

Grantaire could not have explained what made him do it, what possessed him in that moment, whether it was the fire in Enjolras’s eyes or the fact that they stood only inches apart. He couldn’t have told you what he hoped it would accomplish. But in that moment, none of it mattered; what mattered was the beautiful man before him, the man that he had, perhaps against all his better judgement, been falling in love with for the better part of a year.

So Grantaire did what he had been trying to stop himself from doing ever since meeting Enjolras: he closed the space between them and kissed him.

For a long moment, Enjolras just sort of stood there in shock, but then he dropped his hands to Grantaire’s hips, pulling him in closer and kissing him back. Neither knew how long the kiss lasted, but when Grantaire pulled away, it was to stumble backward in panic. “Oh, shit, I, uh, I didn’t mean — I mean, I  _did_  mean, but I didn’t—”

Enjolras cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow at him, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t mean to just make out with me?” he asked wryly.

Grantaire blushed scarlet but he held his ground without looking away from Enjolras. “No, I didn’t,” he said firmly. “I meant the emotions behind it, and I think it’d be kind of foolish for me to try and take that back now, but as the FBI agent in charge of you, I really shouldn’t be kissing my confidential informant, regardless of how much I wanted to.”

The expression on Enjolras’s face flickered for a moment, and he asked cautiously, “But what is it that made you want to do that in the first place?

Shrugging, Grantaire did look away now, studying his feet as he muttered, “Because you looked like…God, you looked like some kind of avenging angel and that  _shouldn’t_  be hot, but Christ, I think that in another lifetime I would have followed you anywhere and—” He broke off, a blush rising his his cheeks, and shrugged again. “I mean, Jesus, I don’t even know if you like men.”

He was about to elaborate, or try and explain, or, hell, change the subject to something on far less shaky ground, but then Enjolras surged forward, gripping the base of Grantaire’s skull as he kissed him fiercely. Grantaire melted into the kiss for a long moment, but then pushed him away, looking equal parts elated and confused. “Why would you do that?” he spluttered, staring at Enjolras with wide eyes.

“Because I wanted to,” Enjolras said, simply, shrugging nonchalantly. “Because you looked enraptured describing that to me. Because you’re unlike any cop or so-called authority figure I’ve ever met. Because you almost make me believe that the system isn’t as broken as I think it is.”

Grantaire half-smiled, his eyes bright, and told him, “To be fair, you almost make me believe that the system  _is_  broken, and that the way you’re going about doing things is the right way, so…”

Enjolras laughed lightly at that, capturing Grantaire’s lips with his own again. Then he rested his forehead against Grantaire’s, running a hand through Grantaire’s dark curls, and Grantaire smiled a little nervously at him. “So what do we do now?” Grantaire asked, a little breathlessly.

Pulling back slightly, Enjolras shrugged. “Well, we’re alone, in my bedroom, with my bed just a few feet away, and I can only go two miles at most in any direction, so what do you think we should do now?”

Grantaire stared at him for a long moment, then laughed, almost nervously. “Right. That, um, that sounds like a great idea. I mean…” He pulled away, shaking his head. “No, that’s a  _terrible_  idea. You and I…we can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Enjolras asked, reaching out to encircle Grantaire’s wrist with his hand. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s totally fine, but, uh, I kind of get the feeling you want to.”

“What I want doesn’t matter in this,” Grantaire said, trying for firm but his voice betrayed him, shaking slightly as he continued, “If you and I do this, there’s no going back. I would have to report our relationship to my higher-ups, and given everything, I somehow doubt they’d let me stay on as your supervisor. They need you more than they need me.”

Enjolras kissed him again then, cutting off the further protest from Grantaire, which died in his throat anyway as he clutched Enjolras, the kiss turning fierce and hungry. When they broke apart this time, Grantaire had an almost dazed smile on his face, though he quickly tried to turn his features stern. “Fine. If we do this, you have to promise, no word of this to anyone. And this is…this can only be a one time thing.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Enjolras returned, and at Grantaire’s raised eyebrow, he said quickly, “The telling anyone part, at least. I mean, I’m a criminal, after all. It’s not like they’d believe me anyway.”

Grantaire nodded, quickly, and cleared his throat. “I’m, um, I’m going to run to the bathroom really quickly, so why don’t you, uh, do…whatever it is you need to do?” At Enjolras’s nod, he backed away slowly, almost not wanting to take his eyes off of Enjolras, almost not wanting to believe that this was or could ever be real.

Enjolras stared after Grantaire for a long moment, something like guilt twisting in his gut. It almost didn’t seem right, not when Grantaire seemed invested in it, not when he actually seemed to have feelings for Enjolras. He didn’t want to hurt Grantaire, he purposefully avoided including people in his life for this very reason, for the fear of doing irreparable damage to them by the very nature of what he did. And as much as he complained about the system that Grantaire worked within, he also knew that Grantaire really wasn’t like everyone else, and part of him felt guilty for inevitably ruining that for him.

But he could do this. It wouldn’t be like some of the other times when he had been forced by circumstance to maintain his cover or get information through less than honorable means. Grantaire may not be exactly attractive, but he was hardly repulsive to Enjolras, and he had no doubt that Grantaire would be a perfect gentleman in bed.

And he could  _use_  this, use this opportunity that had presented itself when he was least expecting it because honestly, this only helped his plan. And so he  _would_  use this, and in the long run, did it matter if the person he used was Grantaire, who he had come to grudgingly respect, as opposed to some stranger? The end result would surely be the same.

And hadn’t he always thought that the ends justified the means?

So he took a deep breath and pulled his phone out of his pocket, quickly texting Combeferre. [To: Combeferre]  _Something’s come up. Give me an hour. I’m making sure Grantaire’s out of the way_.

With only one remaining guilty look at his phone, he shoved it back in his jeans pocket and sat down on the bed, taking a deep breath and smiling when Grantaire tentatively poked his head back in the room. “Are you, uh, ready?” Grantaire asked, a bit breathlessly.

Enjolras smiled at him, a wide, charming smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Oh yeah. I’m ready.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've bumped the rating up to mature, and as fair warning, **this chapter is NSFW and contains brief explicit sexual content**. It's the only one that does which is why I didn't bump the rating up to explicit, but still. 
> 
> Consider yourselves warned.

———  _Two Years Ago_  ———

 

Waking up at four in the morning was never the way that Grantaire wanted to get woken up, but thankfully, Feuilly knew him well enough to start the conversation with, “Robin Hoodie”, and continue it with, “I have coffee for you if you let me into your apartment.”

It was enough to get Grantaire out of bed and stumbling down to the front door, taking the coffee Feuilly pressed into his hands and drinking from it deeply, mentally glad that he hadn’t gotten  _too_  drunk the night before. Once he had drained half of the coffee, he was able to ask, “What about Robin Hoodie?”

“You’re going to like this,” Feuilly said, grinning at him. He set the file folder on the coffee table and told Grantaire, “We got a picture.”

Grantaire blinked at him. “A picture of what?”

Flipping the folder open, Feuilly slid it over to Grantaire. “A picture of Robin Hoodie. Full face and everything. We’re running it through facial recognition as we speak.”

With almost trembling fingers, Grantaire picked up the picture from inside, looking into the face of the man who had eluded him for a year now. And as soon as he did, he knew he was completely fucked.

Robin Hoodie was as hot as all the witnesses had said. He was young, too, younger than Grantaire had thought, no older than his mid-twenties. And he was  _gorgeous_ , with blue eyes that seemed to stare right into Grantaire’s soul and curls that just begged to have fingers tugged through them.

For the first time in years, Grantaire wanted to use what little artistic training he had to paint, because this was a face that demanded paintings in its honor, if not sculptures and, hell, songs written to its beauty. It was a beauty like what hadn’t been seen in years, the kind the classic arts had tried to capture.

And here it was, belonging to the infamous criminal that Grantaire had been tracking.

He was so  _completely_  fucked.

“I want details,” Grantaire demanded, then tried to take a sip from his now-empty coffee cup and made a face. “Well, more coffee first. But then I want details.”

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

There was a long moment where Enjolras and Grantaire just looked at each other. Then, with a distracted grace that Enjolras thought must be borne from some kind of dance training, Grantaire crossed the room to push him down against the bed, kissing him soundly. There was something gentle and intimate in the way that Grantaire’s hand cupped Enjolras’s jaw as he kissed him, something that caused an unexpected warmth to stir in Enjolras’s chest.

Something that caused another brief pang of guilt in the pit of Enjolras’s stomach.

He rolled Grantaire over on to his back, kissing down his jawline to nip at Grantaire’s neck, causing Grantaire to gasp slightly, and Enjolras quickly set to work unbuttoning Grantaire’s shirt, running his hands down the planes of Grantaire’s chest as soon as they were revealed. Grantaire bit off a moan, and his own fingers fumbled with the button and zipper of Enjolras’s jeans.

The next few minutes were a flurry of limbs, clothing, lips and teeth as neither man wanted to move away from the other long enough to take their clothing off, but wanted the other out of his clothing as soon as possible. Finally, with a slight chuckle, Enjolras, who had been divested of his shirt and had his jeans pulled down to just under his hips, pushed Grantaire, who was down to his unbuttoned shirt and boxers, gently away before pulling his jeans and boxers off in one motion.

As soon as Enjolras was naked, sprawled back against the bed, Grantaire seemed to freeze for a long moment, just looking at him with an expression that Enjolras couldn’t quite place. Then he shrugged out of his shirt, pulled his boxers off and knelt, one knee in between Enjolras’s legs, bending to kiss him, something reverent in the way his lips touched Enjolras’s.

Enjolras made a low noise of approval and ran his fingers down Grantaire’s back, smiling as Grantaire shivered slightly. Their legs tangled together as the kiss deepened, and Grantaire froze when Enjolras’s tracking anklet knocked against his leg. “It would probably be more comfortable if you took off my tracking anklet,” Enjolras told Grantaire, aiming for nonchalance.

For just a moment, Grantaire hesitated.

For just a moment, Enjolras felt guilty.

But then Grantaire ran his fingers down Enjolras’s calf, their touch feather-light against his skin, and the breath caught in Enjolras’s throat, and he couldn’t find it in himself to feel guilty for this. So long as he didn’t lose sight of what he was trying to accomplish here, anyway. “I suppose you’re not going to run off on me,” Grantaire said, his voice a little rough, and it took him only a few seconds to disconnect the tracking anklet from Enjolras’s ankle, setting it and its key on the bedside table.

Then he skimmed his fingers back up Enjolras leg, pausing almost teasingly on Enjolras’s knee. “Now. Where were we?”

Without waiting for Enjolras to answer — which was probably for the best, since Enjolras wasn’t sure he could really speak at the moment — Grantaire’s hand slid up to rest possessively on the inside of Enjolras’s thigh, close enough to Enjolras’s cock to make his hips cant forward with want. Grantaire laughed a little breathlessly and leaned in to kiss Enjolras as his hand finally gripped Enjolras’s cock.

It had been so long for Enjolras — too long — that for a moment, he closed his eyes, his breath stuttering in his chest at just the sensation of Grantaire’s hand lightly moving up and down his cock. Grantaire kissed up his jawline before whispering into his ear, “Relax.”

Enjolras nodded and swallowed hard, trying to do just that. Grantaire took his hand off Enjolras’s cock, eliciting a whine that Enjolras would probably feel a bit mortified about later, and instead ran both his hands up Enjolras’s slim torso, broad and strong and ruddy against Enjolras’s pale skin. “Relax,” Grantaire repeated. “We have all night.”

That was almost enough to make Enjolras laugh, a little hysterically, because, well, Grantaire would certainly be spending all night in his bed. Instead, he shook his head slightly and reached up to capture Grantaire’s lips in a filthy, hot kiss, wrapping a hand against the back of Grantaire’s neck to pull him in closer.

As they kissed, Grantaire shifted so that he was straddling Enjolras’s hips, their cocks barely brushing against each other. It was enough to make Enjolras moan softly, a sound that grew louder when Grantaire rocked his hips gently forward. He bit off a curse as Grantaire settled into a rhythm that had their cocks sliding against each other without nearly as much friction as Enjolras wanted, and he gasped, “Keep that up and I won’t last.”

Grantaire chuckled and rolled his hips purposefully slowly, letting his cock drag alongside Enjolras’s for a long enough moment that Enjolras’s hips jerked upwards to try and force him to move faster. “Then don’t last,” Grantaire said, his voice low in Enjolras’s ear, and he dropped a chaste kiss to Enjolras’s lips. “Come for me.”

He slipped a hand between their bodies, taking both their cocks in hand, and teasingly swiped his thumb over the slit of Enjolras’s cock, capturing Enjolras’s resulting moan with his mouth. With the added friction of Grantaire’s hand as well as the way Grantaire continued his rocking motion against Enjolras, it didn’t take long at all for the heat to pool in Enjolras’s stomach, for his toes to curl, and for Enjolras to gasp, “Grantaire—” before coming over Grantaire’s hand and between both their stomachs.

Grantaire kissed him then, almost sweetly, and murmured, “Fuck, you’re  _beautiful_ ”, reaching for the tissues on the bedside table. He carefully cleaned off both of their stomachs and then peppered kisses up Enjolras’s heaving chest, ending with a heady, open-mouthed kiss that brought to Enjolras’s attention the fact that Grantaire was still painfully hard.

“Do you want me to—?” he started, but Grantaire just shook his head and kissed him again.

“You don’t have to. I can take of it.”

Enjolras just snorted and said, “I don’t know what kind of gentleman you think I am, but I am not just going to let you take care of that. It’s the least I can do.”

And with that, he rolled them over so that Grantaire was lying on his back, his cock curved and flushed against his stomach, and carefully began kissing and licking his way down Grantaire’s torso, pausing to lick one nipple almost languidly, grinning at the way Grantaire’s hips bucked as he moaned. Then he moved further down, nuzzling down Grantaire’s happy trail until his lips were pressed against the skin right above the leaking head of Grantaire’s cock.

For just a moment, he hesitated. He didn’t have to do this. He could have let Grantaire finish himself, or, hell, could have accomplished what he needed to without even that happening. He didn’t  _have_  to do this.

But he wanted to.

So he bent and licked a stripe up the length of Grantaire’s cock before taking it into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he slowly bobbed his head, taking more of Grantaire’s cock into his mouth as he went. Grantaire moaned obscenely and tangled a hand in Enjolras’s curls. “Jesus fuck,” he gasped.

Enjolras hummed a laugh and Grantaire’s hips bucked at the sensation, in a way that would have choked Enjolras if he hadn’t held Grantaire’s hips down with his hands. He increased his paces, running his tongue along the vein on the underside of Grantaire’s cock, sucking and bobbing as Grantaire fell apart around him, gasping and panting and alternating his name with various obscenities.

Finally, Grantaire’s back arched and his grip on Enjolras’s hair tightened. “Enjolras—” he said, urgently, clearly in warning. Enjolras just pulled back slightly, swirling his tongue around the head of Grantaire’s cock, and Grantaire moaned loudly before coming in Enjolras’s mouth.

Enjolras swallowed and all but collapsed next to Grantaire, who, to his surprise, rolled over and kissed him. When they broke apart, Grantaire ducked his head, grinning. “You have no idea how long I wanted that,” he said, a little sheepishly.

Laughing lightly, Enjolras rolled over to bury his face against Grantaire’s shoulder. “Thank you for that,” he said, his voice low. “It’s been…well, it’s been awhile.”

“Not a problem,” Grantaire said, yawning widely before admitting, “It’s been awhile for me, too. There hasn’t really been anyone since…” He dropped off abruptly, his face flushing slightly.

For a long moment, they cuddled together in silence, Grantaire playing with Enjolras’s hair, occasionally trading lazy kisses as they both came back to earth. Finally, Enjolras kissed Grantaire again and told him, “Well, it was obviously good for me.”

“Mmm,” Grantaire hummed contentedly in agreement, though his hum turned into a whine as Enjolras shifted as if to get up. “Where are you going?”

Enjolras chuckled slightly and kissed his forehead. “I have to pee. Is that allowed, officer?”

Grantaire reluctantly released Enjolras from his grip, though he pouted up at him. “I suppose I don’t really have a choice,” he sighed. “Just hurry back.”

As Enjolras padded away, Grantaire rolled onto his back, trying to stop the stupid grin from spreading across his face. He let himself drift into a light, dreamlike sleep as he replayed everything that had happened that night, but was jolted rather rudely back to wakefulness when something cold touched his wrist, followed by the unmistakable  _click_  of handcuffs closing.

His eyes snapped open and he sat up, jerking to a stop when the handcuffs attaching his wrist to the headboard stopped him from sitting up all the way. “Enjolras?” he asked, confused more than anything at the sight of Enjolras hurrying to put his clothes on.

Enjolras looked back at him, guilt and defiance mingled in his expression, and he straightened and shrugged almost helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

Then he was gone, leaving Grantaire handcuffed to the bed.

For a long moment, Grantaire just lay there in shock. He had no idea how to process what had just happened. Part of him wanted to just give up and sob, curl into himself and cry for being so completely fucking stupid to trust Enjolras, to do this when he should have known better.

He _had_ known better, and now he was getting what he deserved.

The other, larger part of him knew that he had to somehow stop Enjolras from getting to Le Cabuc, if only to somehow save his own ass from what was about to go down. It certainly wasn’t because he was worried about Enjolras, because he couldn’t handle letting Enjolras do this to himself.

He didn’t give a damn what happened to Enjolras at this point.

At least, that’s what he told himself as he twisted in the bed, reaching in vain towards his pants, which were pooled on the floor next to the bed. He stopped when he realized it wasn’t going to happen, and lay back against the pillows, letting despair take him for a moment.

Of course it was his fucking luck, to have been tricked by the asshole that he had made the mistake of trusting, to now be handcuffed to someone else’s bed, in someone else’s house. Just his luck, Courfeyrac would come check on them and find him like this.

_Oh_  — Courfeyrac.

“Courf!” Grantaire shouted, as loud as he possibly could, rattling the handcuffs in hope the additional sound would draw Courf’s attention. “Courfeyrac! Help!”

Grantaire continued yelling for a few minutes until Courfeyrac knocked on the door and called, “Grantaire? Is everything alright?”

Grantaire almost sobbed in relief. “No, it’s not alright. Get the fuck in here, would you?”

Courfeyrac walked in, looked around, and giggled. Grantaire scowled at him. “It’s not fucking funny,” Grantaire snapped, the reality of what could happen with Enjolras beginning to sink in. “If you don’t let me out of here, Enjolras is going to do something really fucking stupid. Something that’s going to land him back in jail, permanently.”

Shrugging slightly and averting his eyes, Courfeyrac asked mildly, “Well, what do you want me to do? I don’t have keys to the handcuffs.”

"My phone is in my pocket," Grantaire said, nodding towards his pants. "If you can give it to me, I can call for back up."

Courfeyrac nodded stiffly and bent to pull Grantaire’s pants off the floor, going through the pockets slowly, as if he didn’t realize how urgent this was. “Do you not understand how important this is?” Grantaire snapped, hoping it would spur him into action.

Courfeyrac shrugged, pulling Grantaire’s phone out of his pocket and turning it over in his hands, avoiding Grantaire’s gaze, and suddenly, Grantaire realized. “Oh.” He deflated, staring up at Courfeyrac with a look of complete betrayal. “You work with him.”

Shooting him an almost nervous look, Courfeyrac said quickly, “It’s not like that—”

“The fuck it isn’t,” Grantaire snapped. “Have you been working with him this whole time? You have, haven’t you?” When Courfeyrac didn’t deny it, Grantaire knocked his head back against the wall and groaned. “God, I’m such a  _fucking_  idiot.”

Courfeyrac hesitated for just a moment more, then tossed the phone onto the bed next to Grantaire. “I may agree with Enjolras on a lot of things,” he said, his voice low, “but I’m worried about him. And if you can stop him, well…”

He met Grantaire’s eyes for a brief moment, then left. Grantaire just shook his head, trying again not to cry. Was there anyone he could trust?

Well, yes, there was, and it was vitally important that he got ahold of them as soon as possible. With the hand not handcuffed to the bed, he called Bahorel. “Bahorel, it’s me. Listen, I need you and Feuilly to put an APB out on Enjolras. He’s out of his tracking anklet and most likely on his way to Le Cabuc.”

“Absolutely,” Bahorel said instantly, not even questioning the fact that Grantaire was calling him in the middle of the night. “I’ll get right on it.” He paused before asking, a little curious, “How’d he get out of his tracking anklet?”

Grantaire shook his head, feeling tired. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, feeling his cheeks burn with his shame, with the fact that he had been that stupid. “What matters is that we get to Le Cabuc before Enjolras does.”

Bahorel didn’t push the matter, instead telling him, “As soon as I get ahold of NYPD and our guys, I’ll meet Feuilly over at Le Cabuc’s. We’ll get him, boss.”

“Thanks, Bahorel,” Grantaire said quietly. “Glad to know that I can trust you.”

With that, he hung up, hesitating for just a moment before calling Jehan, hoping that his roommate would be staying up late tonight. Thankfully, Jehan picked up after only two rings. “Hey, Prouvaire,” Grantaire said, sounding exhausted. “Is there anyway that I can get you to come into the city and pick me up? I left my car at the office and I don’t think I’m going to be able to go back and pick it up.”

"Sure, not a problem,” Jehan said instantly, and Grantaire almost deflated with relief. But then Jehan asked, concern clear in his voice, What happened?"

Grantaire sighed. “It’s not important,” he said, in a tone that told Jehan he wasn’t ready to talk about it. “But, uh, can you bring my lockpick set with you? And my set of extra handcuff keys?”

Jehan was quiet for a long moment before asking, “Am I picking you up from something to do with your job, or something to do with sex?”

“Would you believe me if I said both?”

Again, Jehan was quiet before asking, simply, “Enjolras?”

Grantaire just shook his head, completely emotionless, completely defeated, completely unwilling to try to explain everything that had happened that night, the pain of betrayal that seemed to twist in his gut. “Yeah. Enjolras.” He glanced around the apartment, his jaw clenching. “And I’ve learned my lesson. Never trust a con.”

* * *

 

The door to a shabby apartment opened slowly, and a hand groped for the lightswitch. Before the light could be turned on, a table lamp switched on, followed by the telltale sound of a gun being cocked. The man in a doorway, a thickset, sturdy man, froze in place, holding his hands up in the air as he stared with wide-eyes at the man sitting in his armchair, pointing a gun at him. “Good evening, Le Cabuc,” Enjolras said, almost pleasantly. “Why don’t you come in?”


	8. Chapter 8

———  _One and a Half Years Ago_  ———

 

Feuilly’s voice was equal parts amused and grim as he told Grantaire, “There’s been another robbery.”

Grantaire groaned and bent forward to rest his forehead against his desk. “You know, those are rapidly becoming my least favorite four words in the entirety of the English language,” he complained without lifting his head. “Please tell me it had nothing to do with Robin Hoodie. Please tell me—”

“Agent Grantaire.” Javert’s voice made Grantaire sit up straight, glancing around to meet Javert’s eyes, and when Javert gestured to him, Grantaire sighed heavily and stood, following Javert into the conference room, where he sat down next to Bahorel, Feuilly settling in on his other side. “It’s Robin Hoodie. There’s been another robbery.”

It was quite possible that Grantaire made a low, whining noise in the back of his throat, but his fellow agents at least left him the dignity of pretending that he didn’t. Javert’s gaze swept the room and his expression soured. “This is serious business this time,” he said. “One of the witnesses on the scene said that Robin Hoodie robbed her at gunpoint.”

For a moment, everyone exchanged uneasy glances, but then Grantaire leaned back in his chair and laughed drily. “She’s lying.” When the other agents glanced at him, when Javert raised his eyebrow, giving Grantaire his most terrifyingly skeptical look, Grantaire just shrugged. “The only instance we have ever encountered of Robin Hoodie using a weapon was to try and take out another thief who had just killed someone. He’s  _never_  used a weapon on an innocent civilian. Meaning either it wasn’t Robin Hoodie, or else she’s lying.”

An agent across the table snorted and rolled his eyes. “Even though you’re obsessed with Robin Hoodie, Agent Grantaire, I’m sure you’d agree that it wouldn’t hurt to list him as armed and dangerous. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“For starters, listing him as armed and dangerous could be justification for a law enforcement officer to take him down with deadly force,” Grantaire said, his voice icy. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Robin Hoodie has never used violence in the past, and it’s not as if he’s getting desperate right now. I just can’t believe that this is true. Is there any other corroboration from other witnesses?” Javert frowned and shook his head and Grantaire sat back in his chair. “I rest my case.”

The other agent shook his head. “You do realize you’re putting your faith in a thief who’s stolen millions if not billions of dollars, right?”

“I’m putting my faith in the system,” Grantaire snapped, eyes flashing. “I’m putting my faith in what we do and what we know, and at the moment, we  _know_  Robin Hoodie isn’t violent. I trust that we will find him, and I trust that when we do, we will not need to use force or violence to take him in.  _That’s_ what I’m putting my faith in, and if you disagree with that, Agent, perhaps you should be the one reconsidering where you’ve placed your faith.”

With that, he stood, giving Javert a curt nod as he headed back to his desk. Feuilly and Bahorel followed him out, and when Grantaire sat down and glanced up at them, Bahorel bit the bullet and asked, “Are you sure we shouldn’t at least  _think_  about whether he could be armed?”

Grantaire sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You both know me, right? You know that I don’t blindly put my faith in anything, that I don’t believe in anything without cause.” Both men nodded and Grantaire told them firmly, “I believe that Robin Hoodie would never hurt anyone. And I’m sticking to that.”

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

“On your knees.”

Le Cabuc looked helplessly at Enjolras, who had risen from the armchair, the gun still pointed unwaveringly at him. “You know what you did,” Enjolras said in a low voice, stepping towards him. “You know that you killed an innocent man, disgraced the con.”

Shaking his head, Le Cabuc whispered, “Please, I didn’t mean, I—”

“On your knees!” Enjolras repeated, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and forcing him down on the ground. Once there, Enjolras just looked down at him for a long moment, paler than usual, something grave in his expression as he watched Le Cabuc tremble and sob on the floor.

When he was sure Le Cabuc would not struggle, he released his grip on Le Cabuc’s shirt and looked at his watch. “Make your peace with whatever God you believe in,” he said firmly. “Think or pray. You have one minute.”

Le Cabuc shook his head wildly and said, “Mercy!” Then his head fell forward against his chest and he whispered a few inarticulate words.

Enjolras didn’t take his eyes off of him for the entire minute that he allowed to pass. But once the minute was over, he tightened his grip around the gun in his hand and grabbed Le Cabuc by the hair, holding him steady as he placed the muzzle of the gun to the man’s head.

* * *

 

Whatever peace Grantaire thought he might have been able to find by heading back to his apartment was shattered within the first five minutes of being home by a knock on the door. Jehan took one look at the expression on Grantaire’s face and went to answer it. He blinked up at the tall, thin man with large spectacles who was glaring suspiciously at him. “Suit,” the man said, his voice crisp, with an undercurrent of worry. “I’m here to see the other suit.”

“You’re here to see who?” Jehan asked, though he stepped back and let the man into the apartment.

Clearly, the man was looking for Grantaire, since he straightened slightly when he saw him. “Suit,” he said, officiously, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t look like what I expected.”

Grantaire, who was half-sitting, half-lying on the couch, propped himself up and raised an eyebrow at the man. “Who are you?” he asked bluntly.

Instead of answering, the man pulled out an odd-looking box from his messenger bag, adjusting what appeared to be antennas on the box, and started walking slowly through the room, waving the box around as he did. “Of course, I can’t exactly say what I was expecting. It’s not as if he said much about you other than, you know, complaining, but I figured he’d have mentioned that you were about the least suit-looking suit of all time.”

Blinking at him, Grantaire shook his head, completely lost. “I’m sorry, but  _who_  are you? And what in the hell are you doing?”

The man shot Grantaire a look that clearly said Grantaire should realize exactly what he was doing. “I’m sweeping for bugs,” he said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

Grantaire pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m a federal agent,” he said, with as much patience as he could muster, which after the night he had just had, was admittedly not a lot. “I very highly doubt my apartment is bugged.”

“Exactly,” the man said, as if he hadn’t heard a word that Grantaire had just uttered. “You’re a federal agent. Meaning it’s highly likely that there are bugs  _somewhere_  in this apartment.”

Grantaire had had enough. He drew his pistol and aimed it directly at the man with steady hands. “Look, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I have neither the time nor the energy to deal with this right now, so either tell me who the hell you are and why you’re here, or get the fuck out of my house.”

The man turned to raise an eyebrow at Grantaire, looking thoroughly unconcerned about the gun currently aimed at his head. “My name is Combeferre. I’m here about Enjolras.”

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, Jehan and Combeferre sat at the kitchen table while Grantaire lay on the couch, a cold washcloth over his eyes, his gun locked away from the moment. Jehan poured himself and then Combeferre a glass of wine, and Combeferre raised his in a slight toast. “Thanks, suit.”

“Oh, I’m not a suit,” Jehan laughed, sipping from his glass of wine. “I’m a writer. With distinct leanings against ‘the man’, I might add. I mean, Jesus, when was the last time I even wore a suit? Grantaire?”

“Either the launch party for your poetry anthology, or my sister’s wedding,” Grantaire told him, mostly toneless in his response.

Combeferre leaned forward and picked up the bottle of wine, surprised when he saw the label. “This was an excellent year for this wine,” he told Jehan, who just winked at him. As he set the bottle down, Combeferre glanced between him and Grantaire. “Are you two…?”

Jehan almost choked on his wine as he laughed. “No.  _God_ , no. I mean, we tried that once—”

“We drunkenly hooked up once,” Grantaire clarified.

Rolling his eyes, Jehan continued primly, “It didn’t work out. We make far too good of friends for that.”

Combeferre nodded in understanding, though he still looked suspicious when he glanced at Grantaire. “Good, because if I thought you were two-timing Enjolras, or sleeping with him just for information, or whatever—”

Grantaire made a noise somewhere between a growl and a sob. “The only one of us sleeping with anyone for dishonest reasons was Enjolras.” He sat up, letting the washcloth fall from his face, and glared at Combeferre. “And none of this explains what the hell you’re doing here.”

Combeferre at least managed to look slightly abashed by that. “Right. Enjolras mentioned what, ah, what happened between you two tonight.” At Grantaire’s raised eyebrow, he quickly clarified, “He didn’t share any details. He didn’t really want to talk about it at all, to be honest.”

“And tell me,” Grantaire said, voice dry, “since you seem to know him  _so_  well, what does that mean?”

“It means that for better or for worse, he didn’t want to do that to you.” Seeing the look of hurt that briefly flashed across Grantaire’s face, he quickly rephrased. “The leaving you handcuffed in bed part, at least. Whatever he did before that was entirely what he wanted to do. I know him well enough to know that.”

Grantaire just shook his head, expression stony. “So Enjolras left me handcuffed in bed and went and joined you, assumedly to go take care of Le Cabuc. As there’s been no sign of Enjolras since, I can only assume he’s still there, which begs the question: what are you doing here?”

Combeferre’s voice was quiet when he said, “He sent me away.”

Now Grantaire looked skeptically at him. “He sent you away?” he repeated. “You, who claims to be one of his closest friends? Why in the world would he do that?” He paused, then added, “And keep in mind that if you lie to me, I’m sure there’s some outstanding warrant for your arrest  _somewhere_ , and I’d be  _more_  than happy to find and execute it.”

Rolling his eyes, Combeferre said, a little grimly, “He sent me away because I told him not to go through with it.”

There was a long moment where Grantaire just stared at Combeferre before asking quietly, “Why would you do that?”

“Because as much as I love and respect Enjolras, he’s not infallible.” Combeferre leaned forward, expression earnest. “You know as well as I do that Enjolras can be hot-headed and stubborn as anything. So trying to convince him he’s wrong when he’s determined to do something is always going to be a losing battle, and clearly something that I couldn’t do. But it didn’t mean I shouldn’t try.” He sat back and took off his glasses, polishing them almost nervously as he added, “I told him the truth. That he didn’t have to do this, that the man he was going to kill could be any of us, any criminal who’s gotten into a bad situation.” He shrugged. “Enjolras told me to leave him alone, and that he had to do it. And when I told him if he was going to do it, then I was going to go with him, to share his fate, Enjolras sent me away.”

Grantaire stared down at the floor, trying to process this, to reconcile it and everything else that had happened that evening. He was silent for so long that Combeferre shifted uncomfortably and looked at Jehan, who just shrugged and drained his glass of wine. Combeferre sighed and turned back to Grantaire. “Look, despite what you may think, Enjolras is a good man, and—”

“A good man?” Grantaire repeated, his voice soft, and his fingers curled compulsively at his side. “A  _good_  man?” He leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “Let me explain something to you. You can either be a con, or you can be a man. And it’s pretty clear which one Enjolras chose.”

Combeferre started to reply, but Grantaire stood, pacing agitatedly as he spoke, his voice gaining in volume and anger. “ _Good_  men don’t do that to people.  _Good_  men don’t betray the people who care about them,  _good_  men don’t lie,  _good_  men sure as hell don’t steal from people for a living. Enjolras is  _not_  a good man, Enjolras is a  _criminal_!” He stopped, breathing heavily, and crossed his arms tightly as if trying to physically hold himself together. “And I’ve learned my lesson. I know better than to trust him again.”

He turned to glare at Combeferre and added, “And I know better than to trust any of his friends.”

From the table in the foyer, Grantaire grabbed his handcuffs from where he had put them and his badge, and Combeferre stood so quickly he almost knocked the chair over. Jehan sighed. “Grantaire, please don’t arrest our houseguests.”

Combeferre edged towards the back door as Grantaire approached, and the only thing that saved both of them was a sudden knock on the door. “Answer the door,” Jehan commanded, standing up and grabbing Combeferre’s arm to keep him from running. When Grantaire glared at him, Jehan repeated, “Answer the door.”

Grantaire sighed but did so, staring in shock at the person — well,  _persons_  — outside. Standing on his doorstep, supporting the unconscious form of another person, was Enjolras. “Enjolras?” Grantaire breathed, taking an involuntary step forward.

Enjolras smiled a little grimly at him. “Hello, Agent Grantaire.”

For a moment, it looked like Grantaire might kiss him.

Instead, he punched him in the face.

Enjolras fell heavily to the ground, dropping the guy he had been holding on to. “Ow,” he said, a little dimly, as Grantaire knelt on top of him, digging his knee firmly into Enjolras’s stomach.

“You are under arrest for violating the conditions of your release—” Grantaire started, but Enjolras was not deterred, even if he couldn’t do anything to get Grantaire off of him.

“Look, you can be pissed at me all you want, and trust me, I won’t blame you, but would you at least look at the unconscious guy keeled over on your doorstep because you  _may_  want to arrest him first.”

Grantaire stared at him, then, without moving his knee, turned to look at unconscious guy who, from his prone position, clearly looked an awful lot like the pictures of Le Cabuc Grantaire had in the file in his office. He had a nasty-looking bruise on his left temple, but was otherwise unharmed. “That’s Le Cabuc,” Grantaire said, feeling rather stupid.

Using his distraction to his advantage, Enjolras managed to sit up slightly, propping himself up on his elbows as he met Grantaire’s eyes squarely. “Yeah.” Something flickered in his eyes and, almost tentatively, as unsure as he had ever sounded, he said, “You told me that I could trust you, could trust the system. So…I am.”

For a long moment, Grantaire just looked at him. Then he told Enjolras, his voice distant, “And you once told me that I could trust you, but I’ve learned my lesson.” Something twisted in Enjolras’s expression, but then Grantaire stood up and crossed over to Le Cabuc, who was just beginning to stir. “Luckily for you, I never lied.” He bent and snapped the handcuffs on Le Cabuc. “Le Cabuc, also known as Claquesous, you’re under arrest for the murder of John Porter. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—”

As Grantaire continued Mirandizing Le Cabuc, Enjolras stood, slowly, brushing off his clothes as he did. He stepped into the apartment, crossing to Combeferre, who was staring at him with narrowed eyes. “What happened?” Combeferre demanded in a low voice.

Enjolras shrugged, though he was watching Grantaire, something closed in his expression. “There was no convenient way to dispose of the body without leaving too much evidence behind, and it only would have hurt the cause in the long run.”

His words made sense, but his voice was gruff, and he was still looking at Grantaire almost longingly, and Combeferre chose not to question that. Instead he asked, “So what are we going to do now?”

Shrugging again, Enjolras said, “We’re still going to bring Montparnasse and Patron-Minette down, the way we always planned on doing so.” He paused, and squared his shoulders. “But we’re going to do it with the law, not against it. At least, not fully against it.” He turned to Combeferre, looking away from Grantaire for the first time. “Get everyone together. We’re going to need all of Les Amis’ help to pull this off.”

“And what about you?” Combeferre asked.

Enjolras half-smiled, though it looked more like a grimace. “I leave myself in the mercy of Agent Grantaire.” Grantaire chose that moment to glance back at him, and Enjolras bit his lip. “I just hope that he doesn’t hate me too much.”

From where he had been sitting this entire time watching the spectacle with a bemused look on his face, Jehan snorted and poured himself another glass of wine. “Yeah. Good luck with that.”


	9. Chapter 9

———  _A Little Over One Year Ago_ ———

 

Grantaire sat down almost nervously across from Agent Javert, clutching the file on Robin Hoodie as if it was his lifeline. He wasn’t entirely sure why Javert had called him into his office, but he figured it had  _something_  to do with Robin Hoodie, just as every other thing he seemed to do for the Bureau did. He’d been on the case for almost two years now and didn’t feel any closer to catching him than he had two years ago.

His other case work was adequate, if not exemplary, but Robin Hoodie was proving particularly elusive, which, given how long he had evaded capture before Grantaire got stuck on his case, was not entirely surprising. Still, every time Grantaire solved another con or robbery, he felt less than satisfied, knowing that Robin Hoodie was still out there.

The picture they had finally got of him had only made matters worse.

Not only was it proving useless in turning up anything in any databases — who the hell didn’t at least have a driver’s license by now? — but now instead of hunting a nameless, faceless spectre, Grantaire was chasing after a guy that looked like a fucking Greek God. Which, really, was just his luck.

“Agent Grantaire,” Javert said, glancing at him. “I assume you know why you’re in here.”

Grantaire licked his lips nervously before hazarding, “I assume it has something to do with Robin Hoodie…?”

To Grantaire’s surprise, Javert actually cracked a smile at that. “You assume correctly.” He leaned forward, fixing Grantaire with a piercing stare. “You’ve been doing an excellent job on the Robin Hoodie, Agent Grantaire, and the higher-ups want to make you Assistant Special Agent in Charge in recognition of that.”

Grantaire openly gaped at him, his mouth hanging open in what would probably have been a comic expression to anyone else watching. His mind was racing because whatever he had expected from this meeting, it was sure as hell not  _that_. “But I haven’t caught him yet,” he blurted when he finally recovered the ability to speak.

Javert shook his head, “Even so, you’ve made the most progress of anyone thus far. You’ve got a  _picture_ , which is the most anyone’s had to work with since he came on the scene, what, almost ten years ago now? And it’s all because of the groundwork you’ve laid in steering this investigation.”

Shaking his head slightly, Grantaire croaked, “What does this mean for me, sir?”

“You’ve been running as assumed lead on the Robin Hoodie case. This makes it official. You’ll be able to pick your own team to work full-time on trying to catch this guy, run whatever operations you deem necessary. Your other cases will come second.” Javert leaned forward, his forehead creased. “There are a few high-powered patrons of the FBI who have been taken for quite a bit of money by Robin Hoodie and would like to see him caught sooner rather than later. I don’t need to tell you what it would do for your career if you are the agent who brings him in.” At Grantaire’s short nod, Javert sat back, looking satisfied. “And of course, it’s quite a promotion, Agent Grantaire. You should be proud of yourself.”

Though Grantaire nodded, he felt almost numb, overwhelmed by trying to process everything. “You said that I can run whatever operations I want?” he asked slowly, the wheels in his head turning.

Javert nodded. “Within reason, of course. Anything requiring backup or FBI resources will still require my approval.” He frowned slightly. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Maybe,” Grantaire said, a little vacantly. He stood, then offered his hand to Javert. “Thank you for the opportunity, sir. I’ll do my best.”

After shaking Javert’s hand, Grantaire went back to his desk, dropping the file off and frowning down at it. He wasn’t sure if what he was thinking would work, but it was something worth trying. He crossed over to Bahorel’s desk. “Hey, Bahorel, remember that underground boxing ring you infiltrated a few weeks back? Where there seems to a pretty decent connection to other underworld activities?”

Bahorel glanced up at him. “Yeah, sure. What are you thinking?”

Grantaire smiled slightly. “What do you think your contact would say to another competitor?”

“You want to go undercover?” Bahorel asked, raising an eyebrow. “Have you even boxed since Quantico? Besides, Javert’s never going to approve it — it took forever for me to get my undercover op approved, and you know what he’s like about following the rules.”

Shaking his head, Grantaire told him, “I got promoted to ASAC, so I’m the only one who needs to approve it.” Bahorel started to congratulate him, but Grantaire cut him off. “We’ll celebrate tonight over drinks, but this is important. Do you think they’ll let me in?”

Bahorel sat back in his chair. “Bossuet just might,” he said slowly, “but it’s Joly you’ll want to talk to. He knows everyone, and if anyone can point you in Robin Hoodie’s direction, it’s him. I’ll arrange a sit-down and we’ll see what happens.”

“Sounds perfect. Thanks, Bahorel.” Grantaire clapped him on the shoulder before heading back to his own desk. He had some boxing skills to brush up on, and a meeting to prepare for. He felt a smile grow on his face. This was it — they were finally going to get somewhere in the Robin Hoodie case. He could just feel it.

 

———  _Present_  ———

 

Grantaire blinked tiredly at the flashing red and blue lights outside his apartment building and nodded to Feuilly, who closed the door on Le Cabuc in the backseat of the squad car. Bahorel and Feuilly had joined Grantaire at his apartment after Enjolras brought Le Cabuc to him, and while Feuilly was taking Le Cabuc into the office to be processed, there was still Enjolras to deal with, and Grantaire had no idea how he was supposed to go about doing that. He headed inside, ignoring Enjolras, who looked up when he came in from his position next to Jehan on the couch, instead heading into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of whiskey, not even bothering with a glass. “Are you going to arrest me?” Enjolras asked quietly.

Sighing, Grantaire pinched the bridge of his nose before taking a swig directly from the bottle. “I don’t know yet,” he said, his voice quiet and defeated.

Jehan stood and crossed over to Grantaire to give him a hug. “I’m going back to bed,” he said, then added in a quieter voice, “Take as long as you need to work this out.”

Grantaire nodded and took another swig from the bottle. “Where’d your friend Combeferre go?” he asked in lieu of any of the millions of questions that he wanted to demand Enjolras answer.

“He didn’t want to stick around; cops aren’t really his thing,” Enjolras said honestly, glancing up at Grantaire and then away. “Besides, he had a few things that I needed him to do.” He hesitated for a moment before adding, “I can tell you about them if—”

“No.” Grantaire’s voice was still quiet, but there was an edge of steel in it. “I don’t particularly want to hear anything about it. Especially when I haven’t decided if I’m going to arrest you, and if so, you probably don’t want to add to the charges.” Enjolras wisely chose to keep quiet, and Grantaire ran a tired hand across his face. “You have no idea how tempted I am to just arrest you and throw you back in jail because I was such an  _idiot_  to think that you could ever change.” He laughed then, a wry, bitter, humorless laugh. “Of course, if I did, you’d probably use the fact that we had sex as leverage.”

Enjolras’s eyes flashed up to his. “I would never do that,” he said, his voice low and heated.

Grantaire met his gaze squarely. “And why in the world should I believe you?”

An uncomfortable silence fell between the two for a long moment, and then Grantaire shook his head and took a deep breath. “The fact of the matter is that there would be far too many questions involved with what the hell happened here if I were to arrest you, and to be honest, they’re questions that I don’t want to answer now or at all. Meaning that I’m not going to say anything, and I trust Feuilly and Bahorel enough to not say anything either.” He looked back to Enjolras, his expression hardening. “Just don’t think I’m going to make the mistake of trusting you again.”

He grabbed Enjolras’s tracking anklet from where he had put it earlier when he returned to his apartment and gestured for him to stand. When he put the tracking anklet back on Enjolras’s ankle, his touch was cold and distant, avoiding touching Enjolras’s skin when he could — in other words, it was completely unlike when he had taken the anklet off earlier in the night. Then he turned and told Enjolras, “Agent Bahorel will take you back to Courfeyrac’s. He’s waiting outside.”

As he turned away, Enjolras looked at him, something almost sad in his expression, and he said softly, “I’m sorry, Grantaire.”

Without turning back, Grantaire said icily, “It’s  _Agent_  Grantaire.”

Then he disappeared towards his bedroom, leaving Enjolras staring after him, something unreadable on his face.

* * *

 

Enjolras made sure to show up to work on time the next day, and even swung by Starbucks to pick a coffee up for Grantaire (a venti red eye with two shots). It wasn’t because he was feeling guilty — it  _wasn’t_  — but he figured that trying to rebuild what bridges he had burned was a good thing to attempt to accomplish.

Especially since Grantaire took one look at the coffee Enjolras tried to hand him and promptly turned his back on him. Well, Enjolras took that one as well as he could, forcing a smile onto his face as he followed Grantaire into his office. “So what are we working on today?”

“ _I_  am working on the Patron-Minette case,” Grantaire said, still not looking at Enjolras. “ _You_  are on desk duty for the foreseeable future.”

Enjolras stared at Grantaire, feeling his stomach drop. “What?” he said, his voice coming out hoarse. “You’re  _benching_  me? After everything, you’re—”

Grantaire turned to face him, expression stony. “After everything, you should be  _happy_  that the only thing I’m doing is benching you,” he said, his voice calm but his eyes dark. “I’m not handing what might be one of the most important cases this division has handled over to someone who can’t be trusted, especially since all you’ve ever done is hinder our investigation.” He raised an eyebrow at Enjolras. “How am I supposed to know if you’re actually on our side and not just working with Patron-Minette?”

Enjolras’s jaw clenched. “I would think that you knew me better than that, regardless of everything else that’s happened,” he said coolly, though he made no further attempt to argue with Grantaire. Instead, he asked as politely as he could manage, “May I take an early lunch before tackling the  _thrilling_  cases that I’m sure are waiting for me?”

“Sure,” Grantaire said, sitting down at his desk. “They’ll still be waiting for you when you get back.”

It took all of Enjolras’s effort to not storm out of the office and slam the door behind him, though he did perhaps close it a bit harder than necessary, and his steps were also a bit louder than normal. He called Combeferre on the way out of the building, asking him to meet at their usual café, which was within Enjolras’s radius but far enough from the FBI office that Combeferre would actually show up, and not in a ridiculous disguise.

Once Combeferre was there, Enjolras wasted no time in telling him the entire story, ending angrily with, “And I  _know_  that I’ve given him no reason to trust me, but he’s taking me off the one case that I was brought out of prison for, the one case that matters to me! He needs my help, or he’s never going to solve it without me!”

“You knew what could happen if this blew up in your face,” Combeferre said mildly, sitting back in his seat. “You knew all the ways this could go wrong, and you went through with it anyway.”

“So, what I deserve this?” Enjolras snapped, glaring at him.

Combeferre held his hands up innocently. “I’m not saying you deserve anything. But I think you’re not giving Grantaire enough credit. For one thing, he’s a better guy than you’ve made him out to be, and I got that from one simple conversation with him last night, meaning you’ve known that for awhile.”

Enjolras shook his head, feeling his face flush, and muttered, “That’s not the point—”

“No, the point is that Grantaire has feelings for you,” Combeferre interrupted, though his voice was still mild and calm. “And I’m not blaming that on you either. But that being said, you knew he had feelings for you and you used those feelings to your advantage and you got caught. He’s got every right to be a little upset.”

Shaking his head again, Enjolras muttered, “I’m not saying he doesn’t, I’m just saying this is a low blow.”

Combeferre shrugged. “Give him time. I’m sure he’ll come around.” He stood, frowning at Enjolras. “Now if that’s all you wanted, I’ve been hanging around your anklet for too long now, and who knows who may be listening in to this conversation. We’ve been here for too long, and the FBI may be on your trail.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Your paranoia is so comforting,” he said drily. “I’ll see you tonight at Courf’s?”

Nodding, Combeferre started walking away, then paused. “Listen, cut Grantaire some slack, alright? You really hurt him, and if you ever want back on the Patron-Minette case, you’re going to need to get back on his good side.”

Though Enjolras nodded, his frown turned introspective, and he walked back to the office mostly lost in his own thoughts. Combeferre was rarely a poor judge of character, and given what he had said about Grantaire, Enjolras couldn’t help but rethink some of the things he had previously assumed about Agent Grantaire.

In fact, it preoccupied most of his thoughts as he sat down to the fairly boring cases he was assigned to work on, causing him to lose track of what he was working on several times. Combeferre had said that Grantaire was a good guy, and Enjolras had suspected as much for awhile, knowing that “good” to them meant more than black-and-white. Grantaire wasn’t afraid of confronting the gray areas, and it was to his credit as an FBI agent, knowing how and when to bend the rules. He was smart and capable and when it came down to it, Enjolras just plain liked him. Grantaire had a wry sense of humor but he was enjoyable to be around, and Enjolras had found his time with the FBI the better for it.

He was still thinking about it when he made his way back to Courfeyrac’s, and only managed a grunt to Courfeyrac’s cheerful, “Hello, dear, how was your day?”

Courfeyrac frowned at Enjolras’s lack of reaction and followed him into the kitchen. “Dare I ask what’s wrong?”

“Problems at work,” Enjolras said dismissively before adding, reluctantly, “Problems with Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Well, that’s hardly unexpected, don’t you think?” When Enjolras just frowned at him, Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and leaned forward. “Look, I was here after you left. I was there when Grantaire put together everything that just happened, and you should have seen his face. He was  _betrayed_ , Enj, to his very core. And as long as I’ve known Grantaire, I haven’t known him to forgive easily.” He shrugged. “You fucked up, man.”

“I know!” Enjolras snapped, suddenly furious, not just at Courfeyrac — in fact, not at Courfeyrac at all — but at the situation, at everything that had happened, and, perhaps most importantly, at himself. “I know I fucked up! I know that I hurt him! I know that Grantaire is a good man and deserves a hell of a lot more than what I did to him, but I can’t change that, even if I wanted to.”

Though Courfeyrac started to interrupt, Enjolras continued, his voice softer, tired. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t realize…I didn’t know how he felt towards me, not until it was too late, and by then…by then getting Le Cabuc was more important than anything.” He paused before saying, a little desperately, “I wasn’t just using him. I…there was something there, something between us and God only knows what it is or what it could have been but I’ve fucked it up and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I _can_  fix it.”

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow at him. “But you’re going to try, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m going to try,” Enjolras said, a little impatiently. “For starters, Grantaire needs my help with the Patron-Minette case, needs  _all_  of our help.” Something in his expression softened as he added, “And I have a lot to try and atone for.”

Nodding, Courfeyrac crossed his arms in front of his chest and asked, “Well, what are you going to do, then?”

Enjolras’s expression turned determined. “I’m going to make things better.”

* * *

 

“I made you spaghetti,” Jehan called as soon as Grantaire came into the apartment. He poked his head out of the kitchen and smiled at him. “I figured you could use a little comfort food after everything.”

Grantaire managed a tired smile. “Excellent, it goes well with red wine, which I could use a lot of tonight.”

The smile on Jehan’s face faltered slightly. “Bad day at the office?”

Grantaire shrugged and was about to respond when his phone rang. He answered without looking at it. “Agent Grantaire.”

“Please don’t hang up.” Courfeyrac’s voice was on the other end, and Grantaire’s grip on the phone tightened against his first instinct, which was in fact to hang up.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “What do you want, Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac’s voice was surprisingly timid as he said, “I was hoping you might come over tonight. There’s some things that I need to explain to you, that I owe you an explanation for, and I wanted to do it sooner rather than later.” When Grantaire was silent, Courfeyrac said softly, “Please, Grantaire. We’ve been friends for years, and I want to try and make this right.”

“Jehan made spaghetti,” Grantaire said, in lieu of answering. “I’ll call you back after dinner and let you know one way or the other.”

He hung up without listening to anything more that Courfeyrac had to say, and headed into the kitchen, where Jehan frowned at him. “Who was on the phone?”

“Courfeyrac,” Grantaire said, pulling a bottle of wine out of the wine rack and uncorking it. “He wants me to come over tonight, to ‘explain’ things to me. Like I don’t already know what was going on.” He poured himself a full glass and took a swig. “He used me, just like Enjolras used me.”

Jehan’s frown deepened. “Don’t you think you owe it to yourself and how long you’ve been friends with Courfeyrac to hear what he has to say?” Jehan asked softly. “Don’t you want to find out if there was any truth to any of what happened?” When Grantaire was quiet, Jehan added, “Don’t you want to find out if anything Enjolras felt was real?”

When Grantaire still didn’t answer, Jehan sighed and reached out to take the wineglass from Grantaire’s hand. “Go,” he said, half-smiling at him. “I’ll leave you a plate in the fridge and you can heat it up when you get back.”

It seemed to be decided for him, and so Grantaire had no choice but to drive over to Courfeyrac’s, steeling himself for whatever excuses Courfeyrac was going to give him. Instead, when Courfeyrac opened the door, he offered nothing but a quiet, “Good to see you, you know, clothed,” which made Grantaire roll his eyes, but he still followed Courfeyrac into the living room.

There waiting for them was Enjolras and a few others, and Grantaire glanced around before glaring at first Courfeyrac, then Enjolras. “What’s this?” he asked, his voice deathly quiet.

“It was my idea,” Enjolras said quickly.

Grantaire crossed his arms in front of his chest. “This had better be good,” he said firmly. “You’ve got one minute, and this better not be just another attempt to apologize.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said, almost nervously, and quickly added before Grantaire could interrupt, “and I know you don’t believe me, and I know I’ve given you no reason to, but I really am. And I want to try to make amends, and that’s why you’re here.” He turned to look at the group and added, “And that’s why  _they’re_  here.” He took a deep breath and said, “Agent Grantaire, meet Les Amis de l’ABC. They’re some of my oldest friends, and have helped me in some tight places. You already know Combeferre and Courfeyrac, of course, but this is Bossuet and Joly—”

“I actually know them as well,” Grantaire said, a little vacantly, staring at them.

Bossuet stared right back at him. “You’re a Fed?” he asked, sounding more impressed than anything. “Man, when you boxed for me, I had no idea, I swear.”

Joly smiled slightly. “I knew, of course, or figured it out, anyway, but it's nice to meet you for real now without any pretense on either end.”

Grantaire managed a half-smile, but it faded when he turned back to Enjolras. “What are you trying to prove with this, revealing your criminal allies to me?”

“I’m trying to prove that I trust you,” Enjolras said steadily. “I trust you with my closest friends, and I trust you to get Montparnasse. I want to help, and not because of Le Cabuc or even anything Patron-Minette has done, but because I  _can_  help. You need me, and more importantly, you need  _them_.” Grantaire’s mouth was closed in a tight line, and Enjolras barreled onward. “We’re going to do this your way, without any more lies and secrets.”

For a long moment, Grantaire just stared at him, his expression carefully neutral. Then he said slowly, “I’m half-tempted to just arrest everyone in this room and be done with it.” The expression on Enjolras’s face flickered for a moment, but then Grantaire continued, “But I’m going to hear what you all have to say. Not for  _your_  sake, but for the sake of the case.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “Sure. The case. That’s all any of us want, is to bring Montparnasse in and to justice.”

Grantaire nodded as well, turning away from Enjolras. “I’m going to call Bahorel and Feuilly and get them over here so that they can hear this as well, then we can get started.”

Everyone nodded except for Bossuet, who looked confused. “Wait, Bahorel’s an FBI agent, too?” When everyone nodded at him, he practically wailed, “I feel so betrayed!”

For just a moment, it looked like Grantaire might laugh, but then his expression hardened. “I know exactly how you feel.”

He left to go make the call, and Enjolras slumped into the chair next to Combeferre. “Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?” he asked quietly.

Combeferre just shrugged. “I don’t know. But at least you’re trying, and he knows that now.”

Enjolras nodded, his own expression hardening as well, looking determined again. They would do this, they would capture Montparnasse, and whatever happened between him and Grantaire after that, well…they’d worry about that when they got to it.


	10. Chapter 10

———  _One Year Ago_  ———

 

Grantaire leaned against the bar and smiled disarmingly at the bald-headed man bartending. “Hello,” he said, only a little nervous, “you know my friend, Bahorel. He was supposed to have contacted you about—”

“About boxing?” the bald-headed man asked, glancing at Grantaire in surprise. “Yeah, he told me you might stop by. You got laid off and are looking to make some extra cash?”

Ducking his head, Grantaire shrugged, hoping he looked sufficiently shamefaced as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah I could definitely do with some extra cash, and Bahorel said he’s made it pretty big a few times here, so I just thought…”

The bald-headed man waved a dismissive hand. “Say no more, man. I understand.” He held out his hand for Grantaire to shake. “I’m Bossuet, by the way. I normally deal with the bookie side of things, but Musichetta’s out today.” There was a sudden smashing sound and Bossuet glanced down at the broken glass he had just accidentally knocked off the bar. “And now you see why.”

Grantaire laughed good-naturedly as he shook Bossuet’s hand. “I’m Grantaire. And thanks for this, by the way.”

“No problem,” Bossuet said cheerfully. “Can I get you anything while we discuss details? A beer or something?” Grantaire shrugged and grinned and Bossuet chuckled. “One beer, coming right up.”

He went to pour a beer and Grantaire cleared his throat. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something first. Bahorel said, uh, something about your boyfriend being a sort of back alley doctor or something?”

Bossuet froze and stared at him with narrowed eyes. “Who the hell wants to know?” he asked, suddenly sharp.

Grantaire held his hands up appeasingly. “Whoa, man, I didn’t mean to offend or something. I just have a bad knee and no health insurance from losing my job, and I was hoping…”

He trailed off and Bossuet’s expression softened. “I didn’t think about that. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not supposed to refer people to him without vetting them properly and all that, but you seem like a good guy…Let me check with him real quick and see if he can see you right now, alright?”

Grantaire nodded gratefully and watched at Bossuet edged out from behind the bar and headed towards one of the back rooms, waiting until Bossuet was out of sight before letting out the breath he had been holding. He hadn’t done undercover work in a  _long_  time, and it was more nerve-wracking than he remembered it being.

Hopefully, Joly would agree to see him, and he could work up to asking about Robin Hoodie. He hadn’t  _quite_  worked that out yet, but…well, he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. For the moment, he pulled a cocktail napkin to him and started doodling on it, hoping to pass the time.

He had barely even started on drawing anything concrete when Bossuet came back, grinning at him. “Joly’s a little busy at the moment, but he said that he can maybe fit you in tomorrow, if that works for you. And in the meantime, I believe you wanted a beer.”

Grantaire smiled gratefully. “Yeah, tomorrow shouldn’t be a problem,” he said, though he was mentally trying to remember if he had any important cases that would need to be put on the backburner.

“Oh, have you met Enjolras?” Bossuet asked, sliding the beer across to Grantaire, who looked up from the napkin he was doodling on, startled. Nodding down at the napkin, Bossuet said, “That looks a lot like Enjolras. You may have met him, he comes in here sometimes — he’s an interesting character, but a good friend.”

Grantaire nodded, his mind racing. “Enjolras,” he repeated, mostly to himself. He forced a smile at Bossuet. “Yeah, I think I saw him once. Looks like a fucking Greek God or something.” He shrugged and shaded in Enjolras’s cheekbones in his doodle. “He makes a good muse.”

Bossuet laughed loudly and winked at Grantaire. “I’ll be sure to let him know you said that.”

As Bossuet turned away, Grantaire slipped his cellphone out of his pocket and quickly sent a text to Feuilly. [To: Feuilly]  _I may have a name for Robin Hoodie. Check all available databases for ‘Enjolras’. First or last name._

Then he grabbed his beer, raised it in an invisible toast to Robin Hoodie, AKA Enjolras, and downed it in one long gulp.

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

The silence was deafening and absolute, the kind where only cricket-chirps could be heard in a situation that would be comical in a sitcom but in real life was just incredibly uncomfortable. Enjolras shifted uncomfortably and glanced over at Grantaire, who was looking stonily ahead. “So,” Enjolras said, hoping that Grantaire would at least look at him. Instead, Grantaire ignored him, and Enjolras winced. “Any news from Joly?”

“No,” Grantaire said, still without looking at Enjolras. “I’ll tell you when there is.”

Enjolras sighed and glanced back at the building they were staking out, waiting in Grantaire’s car for their suspect to make a move on breaking into the offices inside. It wasn’t related to the Patron-Minette case, which was probably why Enjolras and Grantaire weren’t really talking, since the only thing they seemed to talk about these days was that case. Well, it was at least one of the reasons why they weren’t talking; Enjolras knew the other reason and also knew that there was very little he could do about that now.

They were also waiting to hear from Joly, who was meeting with all his contacts trying to figure out where Montparnasse would strike next, and had promised to contact them when he did. No matter the reason, things were awkward and uncomfortable between them, and this stakeout was not helping matters. Enjolras cleared his throat. “If it would help,” he said carefully, “I really am sorry.”

Grantaire’s jaw clenched. “Not helping,” he said, through gritted teeth. “In fact, you really don’t have to apologize at all.”

“Well, clearly I have to do something,” Enjolras snapped, frustrated. “We can’t continue working like this! Just tell me — tell me what I can do or say or whatever.”

Closing his eyes, Grantaire tipped his head back to rest against the headrest of his seat. “There is literally nothing you can do or say because there’s absolutely nothing you can do or say that I will believe. I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to trusting you, and I’m not about to make the same mistake again. Especially since I definitely don’t believe that you’re actually sorry.”

Enjolras stared at him, something very close to regret flashing across his face. “I  _am_  sorry, though,” he said, his voice quiet. “Trusting you — trusting the government, it’s not something that comes easy to me. It’s not something that’s ever  _going_  to come easy to me. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t wrong in not trusting you, because you’re one of the only people that I do trust.”

Grantaire just shook his head silently and Enjolras sighed and glanced away. “Are you going to testify against Le Cabuc at his trial?” he asked, casting around for what might be a neutral topic.

He couldn’t have been more wrong in topic choice. Grantaire let out a bitter laugh and glanced over at Enjolras. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked loudly. “You don’t think that might lead to some awkward questions about what happened that night when I’m on the stand and thus under oath?” He laughed again, though there was absolutely no humor in it, and leaned his head back again. “No, I just want to put everything that happened that night, all the lies, behind me and never think about it again.”

For a long moment, Enjolras sat in almost stunned silence before asking softly, “You really want to forget everything from that night? Everything? Including…”

Though he trailed off, Grantaire understood what he meant, and snorted derisively. “Yeah. Everything. Especially since nothing that happened that night was real or honest or true.”

“There was at least one thing that was true,” Enjolras said, his expression dark but his tone steady, and without warning, he leaned in and kissed Grantaire, who froze.

Before either of them could say or do anything — before Enjolras could pull away, or Grantaire could lean into the kiss, whichever was going to happen first, if at all — Grantaire’s phone beeped and Grantaire pushed Enjolras away, his expression once again stony. “It’s from Joly,” he said, glancing down at the screen. “He says he knows where Montparnasse is headed next, and that we should all meet up at Courfeyrac’s.”

Without another word he slid his phone back into his pocket and started the car. Enjolras swallowed hard and opened his mouth to say something but Grantaire shook his head, not taking his eyes off the road. “Don’t,” he said gruffly. “We’ll talk about it later.”

* * *

 

At Courfeyrac’s, everyone was assembled, sitting awkwardly in Courfeyrac’s living room, the cops on one side, the criminals — the  _alleged_  criminals — on the other, and Enjolras sat in between. “Alright, Joly,” Grantaire said, glancing around at everyone, “tell us what you found out.”

Joly sat forward, mug of herbal tea in his hands. “I was talking to one of my sources, a regular client of mine, a kid named Gavroche. I’ve been seeing him since he was little. He lives on the streets a lot and doesn’t have regular access to a doctor. But that’s not the point. He’s been in and out of all sorts of illegal activities, and has had dealing with Montparnasse before. But luckily enough, he ran into Montparnasse on his way over to see me.”

A murmur broke out through the room, but a quick glance from Enjolras silence everyone. “What did he say?”

“He said that when he asked what Montparnasse was up to, he answered, and I quote, ‘Things.’ But then he said that Montparnasse was headed to Rue Plumet to do whatever those things are.”

Enjolras sat back in his seat, a look of understanding on his face, and Grantaire looked at him sharply. “Do you know what’s at Rue Plumet?” he asked.

Enjolras nodded and said simply, his voice grave, “Valjean.”

Comprehension dawned on Grantaire, who blanched, because the name Valjean belonged to only one individual: Senator Jean Valjean, champion of the poor, working class and the disenfranchised. He had been vehemently against the Wall Street bailouts, which had not won him many allies in the city, but he was heralded as a hero by the poor. “What will Montparnasse want with Valjean?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said, his tone still serious. “The only thing I can guarantee is that if Montparnasse is involved, it won’t be anything good.”

Grantaire sighed and rubbed his face tiredly. “Great, just great,” he sighed. “It couldn’t be a normal smash-and-grab. It has to be what looks like it might be an assassination.” He stood, frowning around at everyone. “We’re going to need backup. I have to call this in.”

He nodded at Feuilly and Bahorel and stepped out into the hall so that he could, in fact, call for backup. In the meantime, almost nervous chatter broke out among those still in the living room, and Courfeyrac leaned toward Enjolras, smiling despite the circumstances. “So it looks like we’re closing in on Montparnasse,” he said, and Enjolras grunted in agreement. “What are your plans now that we are?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said shortly. “I’m not going to consider Montparnasse taken care of until he’s behind bars, so I’m certainly not going to make any arrangements right now, not when we might be looking at an assassination.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “But you can’t deny that you’ve been giving it some thought, especially given what you said to me earlier.”

Out in the hall, Grantaire hung up from his call and was just about to head back into the living room when he heard Courfeyrac talking to Enjolras and froze. “Are you still planning on doing what you talked about?” Courfeyrac was asking, something earnest in his tone. “Are you planning on running?”

Grantaire’s heart broke even more when he heard that, because  _of course_. Of course Enjolras was planning on running, had been planning on running all along, because that was who Enjolras  _was_ , and Grantaire should have known that. Everything that had happened between them that day…it was all just one more lie. And he didn’t think he could deal with that right now. He didn’t think he could deal with that  _ever_.

He had wanted so badly to believe in Enjolras. He didn’t think he had ever had such an obvious reminder of why he shouldn’t believe in anything.

He turned away, trying to stop the tears that pricked in his eyes, and never heard Enjolras tell Courfeyrac in an undertone, “Honestly, I’m not sure that I will. Maybe I’ve finally found a reason to stay.”

Once Grantaire had composed himself, he took a deep, steadying breath, and headed back into his room, forcing his expression into something neutral. “Bahorel, Feuilly,” he snapped, gesturing them to come over to him. “Backup’s on their way but we need to head over there now. Enjolras—” For a moment, Grantaire’s expression slipped, but he recovered quickly, his expression hardening once again. “You’re coming with us. Everyone else, stay put. This isn’t your fight anymore.”

Grantaire swept out of the room, Feuilly and Bahorel at his heels, and Enjolras shrugged at Combeferre, who was frowning deeply at him. “It’s out of my hands,” he murmured, and with that, he left.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre took one look at each other and shook their heads. “Fuck that,” Combeferre muttered. “Bossuet, Joly, are you in?”

“We’ve let Montparnasse and Patron-Minette run things on the street for long enough,” Joly said solemnly, his eyes bright with anger. “We have a duty to try and stop things, on our honor as…”

“On our honor as criminals,” Bossuet completed, grinning. “We’re absolutely with you.”

Courfeyrac nodded firmly. “Good. Then put out the call to all friendlies. Enjolras needs help, and that name still pulls a few strings on the streets. Assemble everyone out at Rue Plumet as fast as possible in case things go south.” He allowed himself a fierce smile. “We’re taking Montparnasse down.”


	11. Chapter 11

———  _Eight Months Ago_  ———

 

Even after meeting with Joly for his physical — which given the old knee injury that he actually did have, ended up being one of the best doctor’s appointments Grantaire could recall having — Grantaire hadn’t been able to crack through the firm doctor-patient confidentiality that Joly maintained, despite his less-than-legal credentials. The most Grantaire could do at the moment was haul Joly in for illegally practicing medicine, which probably wasn’t going to win him over into giving Grantaire the information he needed on Enjolras.

Enjolras.

It still felt strange having a name to put with the figure of Robin Hoodie that seemed to exist mostly in Grantaire’s mind. It felt even stranger trying to reconcile everything he had learned about Enjolras — which was not much, mostly anecdotal — with everything he knew about the crimes he had committed. From what he gathered, Enjolras was a genuinely  _good_  man. His friends and allies fiercely loved him, and he they. Everyone believed in what he was doing, believed in his cause, so much so that when Grantaire talked to Bossuet or whomever, he could feel himself getting almost caught up in it.

Almost, of course, was the key word.

But finally,  _finally_ , Grantaire got a one-on-one meeting with Joly about Les Amis. He had planted the seeds in Bossuet’s mind a few weeks before, mentioning that he had heard a lot about what they did and found himself really impressed by it and wanting to know more. More nervous than he had been this entire undercover operation, Grantaire pounded two shots at the bar before Joly leaned out of his office and beckoned for him to come in.

They spent the first few minutes trading idle small talk, until Joly said calmly, “So, Les Amis…”

Trying not to look too eager, Grantaire nodded. “I was hoping you could tell me more. Bossuet’s been telling me some things, and I’ve been really impressed with what you guys do and thought that it was maybe something I could help with.”

Though Joly nodded, he suddenly looked skeptical. “What do you  _really_ want, Grantaire?” he asked, mildly curious but with a steely edge in his voice.

Grantaire frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked, trying to keep his voice mild as well, letting just a bit of confusion color its edges.

Joly leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve been watching you. You’re a good boxer, don’t get me wrong, but that’s not why you’re here. You sit at the far end of the bar so that you can have a full view of the place. You drink, quite considerably, but never to the point of forgetting yourself. So what are you really after, since making a few quick bucks is hardly what you’d get out of joining with Les Amis.”

For a moment, Grantaire hesitated, trying to decide how much he should tell Joly. He decided on an approximation of the truth. “It’s about Enjolras,” he confessed.

Joly’s brow furrowed. “What  _about_  Enjolras?”

“I want to work with him,” Grantaire said quietly.

Joly looked surprised for a brief moment, then wary. “He works alone,” he said, almost cautiously. “Surely you would know that about him.”

Grantaire had to smile a little bit at that. “I know probably more about him than just about anyone else,” he said honestly. “Or at least, about his crimes. Why do you think I want to work with him so badly?” He leaned in, his eyes bright and sincere. “He’s the absolute best. I’ve never seen anyone else like him. The way that he manages each theft, the way he goes from a smash-and-grab job one day to a long con the next, all while targeting those who deserve it the most…” He trailed off, realizing that his tone had slipped into genuine admiration, and blushed a little. “I just think he’s the best.”

Sitting back in his chair, Joly looked at Grantaire contemplatively, almost as if he was trying to decide what to think. “You’re in love with him,” he said finally.

Grantaire almost choked as he spluttered, “I…excuse me…I…what? No!”

Joly laughed lightly and shook his head. “I’ve never seen a single person talk about someone the way you just did about Enjolras without being at least a little bit in love with him.”

Though Grantaire was sure that he was scarlet, he stared determinedly at Joly. “That’s not the point,” he said impatiently. “I want to work with the man not…not fuck him!”

The vehemence of his denial probably didn’t lend it much credence, but at least Joly’s expression softened. “I understand that, but he really does work alone. If you really wanted to work with Les Amis, you’d be pursuing it because of your interest in the cause, not because of Enjolras, whether you love him or not.”

Grantaire recognized a dismissal when he heard one, and he nodded, keeping his expression neutral as he stood. “Well, thank you anyway. I appreciate all your help, and the medical attention.”

Joly stood as well, and leaned across his desk to shake Grantaire’s hand. He watched as Grantaire crossed to the door before calling, “Oh,  _Agent_ Grantaire?”

Grantaire froze. “Agent who?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even, though his heart seemed to plummet directly into his stomach.

“Don’t.” Surprisingly, Joly didn’t sound angry; mostly, he sounded intrigued. “I’ve known you were some kind of law enforcement for weeks now. What I didn’t know was who or what you were after, exactly, which you’ve now made exceptionally clear.” He paused, turning speculative. “The whole being-in-love-with-him thing was an unexpected twist, though.”

“I’m not in love with him.” Now Grantaire didn’t sound defensive; he sounded tired, and he didn’t bother denying the rest.

Though Joly looked skeptical, he merely nodded. “You know I’m going to tell Enjolras that you’re after him.”

Now Grantaire smiled, a genuine, almost wicked smile. “It wouldn’t be any fun if you didn’t.” He fired a mock-salute in Joly’s direction and added, “Tell Enjolras I look forward to meeting him in person on the day that I arrest him.”

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

The ride to Rue Plumet was a silent one, and a tense one at that. Enjolras had been relegated to the back seat with Feuilly while Bahorel rode up front with Grantaire. No one seemed to be in a talkative mood, for one reason or another.

Grantaire in particular was brooding, his mind a whirlwind of trying to process what was about to happen while also trying to process what he had overheard. He  _knew_  that whatever else happened, he couldn’t trust Enjolras, but he thought…Well, he had thought that they might be making progress.

He had clearly thought wrong.

But none of that mattered now, and he tried to force those thoughts from his mind. What mattered was getting to Valjean before Montparnasse did, bringing Montparnasse to justice before he could steal or murder or do whatever it was he was planning on doing at Rue Plumet tonight.

So his grip on the steering wheel tightened and the car sped up.

He had expected that when they arrived at Rue Plumet, the place would be crawling with SWAT, NYPD, and FBI agents. Instead, when they pulled over on the side of the street, there was nothing. “Where the fuck is our backup?” Grantaire snarled at Bahorel, who shrugged.

“I’ll call it in and see what I can find,” he said quickly, pulling out his phone.

In the backseat, Enjolras twisted around, peering out his windows. “This isn’t right,” he muttered. “Something very wrong is going on here.”

Though Grantaire was tempted to agree with him, he just grunted in response as Bahorel snapped, “And who the  _fuck_  ordered that?”

“What’s going on?” Grantaire demanded, and Bahorel shook his head, gesturing for silence.

“Well, fuck you very much!” Bahorel snarled, jabbing the ‘end’ button on his phone with more force than was entirely necessary. He looked up at Grantaire, his expression grave. “Backup’s not coming. They’ve received an order from higher up that the mission is not a go.”

Silence fell instantly after that announcement before Grantaire practically smashed his fist through the steering wheel. “What the  _fuck_  is going on?” he growled, turning around to fix Enjolras with a furious glare. “If you know something, now is the time to say it!”

“I don’t know anything!” Enjolras shot back, paler than usual. “I swear to God, if I did, I would tell you. I want Montparnasse just as badly as you do.”

For a moment, they both just stared at each other, then Grantaire nodded curtly. “Whatever’s going on has to involve someone high up in the government. I’m not normally one for conspiracy theories, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.” He glanced around, from Bahorel, who was almost smiling in anticipation, to Feuilly, who looked grim, to Enjolras, whose eyes were dark. “We have to stop whatever’s about to happen. Even if it’s just the four of us.”

A sudden knock on the car window had him whirling around to find Courfeyrac grinning broadly at him. “Not the four of you,” Courfeyrac called, loud enough that they could hear him. “The nine of us.”

“Nine…?” Enjolras asked, before seeing who was holding Combeferre’s hand and going very still. “Ah.”

Grantaire was staring as well, because his roommate was currently standing there with a bunch of  _criminals_ , and of all the things he had seen and heard tonight, this was the last straw. “Jean Prouvaire,” he hissed, getting out of the car and stalking towards him. “You better have a fucking good reason to be here that does  _not_  involve fucking a criminal or I swear to  _fucking_  God—”

Jehan stood his ground, raising his chin coolly as he stared evenly at Grantaire. “Combeferre and I are dating,” he said calmly. “We hit it off when—” he glanced at Enjolras “—well, you know. When he came over. And we’re not  _fucking_ , so lay off. Besides…” He took a step closer to Grantaire. “I’m not here for him, I’m here for you. Someone needs to stay out here and coordinate things, and it’s not going to be you.” His expression softened and he reached out to squeeze Grantaire’s hand. “I want to do this.”

Grantaire took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten. “Fine, but you stay in the car and you  _do not_  come out for anything, do you understand me? Your job is going to be keeping an eye on him.” He jerked his chin towards Enjolras, who looked affronted. Grantaire, however, ignored that, instead turning to Bahorel and Feuilly, who had gotten out of the car. “Feuilly, you’re on perimeter. Take…” He glanced at the rest of Les Amis, frowning speculatively at them. “Take Bossuet and Combeferre.” Feuilly nodded sharply and gestured at Bossuet and Combeferre, who followed him readily. Then Grantaire turned to Bahorel and gestured him closer. “You and I are going to breach, with Courfeyrac and Joly. Take them around the back; I’ll take the front. You are to seize and detain — do not shoot to kill. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” Bahorel said grimly, heading out with Joly and Courfeyrac, both of whom looked equally grim.

Grantaire turned back to Enjolras, who was still staring at him. “And you are going to stay in the car with Jehan.”

Enjolras shook his head furiously. “You’ve  _got_  to be fucking kidding me!” he snapped. “You can’t leave me in the car on this!”

“I can and I will!” Grantaire snapped. “The last thing I need when going into this is to be checking my back to make sure you haven’t stabbed me in it!”

Something faltered in Enjolras’s expression, and he slowly opened his car door and got out, holding his hands up placatingly. “Look, I know that I’ve given you exactly zero reason to trust me, ok?” Enjolras started, stepping closer to Grantaire, expression serious, more serious than ever it had been while they had known each other. “But you have to trust me now, Grantaire. You need me, and I  _can_  do this.”

Grantaire stared at him, indecision clear, and then shook his head. “Fine,” he muttered, running an agitated hand through his hair. “I’m an idiot for doing it, but fine. Let’s go. We don’t have time to argue.”

Jehan nodded at Enjolras and gave him a tight smile as he slipped past him into the car, his phone out and ready, and without speaking, Enjolras and Grantaire walked in tandem toward the front door. Grantaire looked at Enjolras for a moment before drawing his gun. “I can’t give you a gun of your own,” he muttered in undertones.

Enjolras just shook his head and swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t want one anyway,” he whispered, though his eyes seemed to glitter almost savagely in the dim light. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Though Grantaire rolled his eyes a little, he also nodded, and even went so far as letting Enjolras pick the lock to the front door, slipping inside after him. Without speaking, he gestured for Enjolras to stay behind him as he cleared the front rooms. Enjolras, however, heard the creaking of floorboards from upstairs, and darted toward the stairs. “Enjolras!” Grantaire hissed, glancing around desperately before dashing up the stairs after him.

By the time he got upstairs, Enjolras was gone, having slipped into one of the many rooms, and Grantaire took a deep breath before starting to methodically clear the rooms, most of which were empty. The fifth room, however, caused him to pause, because a blonde girl was fast asleep.

Grantaire backed out as quickly and quietly as possible, and closed the door softly before calling Bahorel and whispering, “Civilian in third room on right upstairs. Use caution.” Then he continued down the hallway, his gun unwavering in his hands.

He found Enjolras in the eighth room. Enjolras, however, wasn’t alone.

Instead, when he opened the door, Montparnasse turned Enjolras around to face him, a wide grin on his face. “Agent Grantaire,” he said, almost pleasantly, his voice smooth. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Grantaire glanced from Enjolras’s face, which was pale and drawn, to the knife Montparnasse was holding against Enjolras’s throat. “Montparnasse,” Grantaire said, forcing himself to sound just as pleasant. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too. Why don’t you drop the knife, and we can talk?”

Montparnasse laughed, and the knife pressed even closer against Enjolras’s skin. “Oh, I don’t think so,” Montparnasse said cheerfully. “So long as I’ve got your man here, you won’t do anything to me.” He paused and turned to Enjolras, running the blade down Enjolras’s skin, grinning when Enjolras shuddered. “And damn, but he is pretty.” He turned his gaze back to Grantaire, his expression hardening. “Tell you what — I’ll make a deal. I’ll let your pretty boy here go, and you let me walk out of here. No harm, no foul. Easy.”

Grantaire looked back at Enjolras, who stared steadily back at him, and for the first time, the gun wavered in Grantaire’s hands. Enjolras said calmly, “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Nodding, Grantaire took a deep breath, allowing himself a sharp smile. Then he took aim, and shot Enjolras.


	12. Chapter 12

———  _Six Months Ago_  ———

 

“We’ve found one of Enjolras’s stash houses.”

Feuilly’s voice was not as excited as Grantaire would have expected with the delivery of such news, and he raised his eyebrow at no one in particular as he pulled his suit jacket on in his apartment. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

Feuilly was silent for a long moment, then said in a strange sounding voice, “Sure. I mean, of course.” He rattled off the address, which Grantaire wrote down, and then asked, in the same strange voice, “So Bahorel and I will see you there?”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, holstering his gun. “I’ll see you there.”

The stash house was an innocuous looking building close to the water, but the inside told a different story, full of items that had yet to be fenced, items that Robin Hoodie — that  _Enjolras_  — had stolen. Bahorel whistled under his breath as he glanced around. “Wow. Quite the stash.”

Grantaire snorted. “That  _is_  why it’s called a stash house.” He sighed and glanced around as well. “Looks like it’s going to be a long day cataloguing all of this.”

Though he sat and pulled a carton to him to get started, Bahorel and Feuilly exchanged almost reluctant glances, and Grantaire frowned up at them. “The hell is your guys’s problem today?” he asked.

They exchanged a second glance before Bahorel said, uncharacteristically quiet, “All of this…It was all going to go to a good cause. And now, what, it’s going to get returned to people who’ve already gotten the insurance money from it?”

“It just doesn’t seem right,” Feuilly added, almost in a quiet voice. “Not that stealing is right. But…”

Grantaire laughed slightly, more startled than anything by their attitude. “Have you all been smoking something?” he asked, still laughing. “It sounds like you’ve been taken in by this Enjolras’s bullshit message. And I  _know_ that’s not the case.”

Bahorel scowled. “Of course not,” he snapped. “But, I mean, think of what we just saw a week ago…”

Grantaire stilled, thinking back to that case, a mortgage fraud case where hundreds of working-class people were cheated out of their homes because of fraudulent mortgages. Feuilly nodded and said solemnly, “It just seems a little silly to worry about something like this when there are people like that out there, when  _that’s_  the kind of shit we should be dealing with.”

Shrugging, Grantaire turned back to the carton, purposefully avoiding their gazes. “It’s not like we know for sure that Robin Hoodie isn’t keeping a cut of this for himself,” he muttered. “I mean, how are we supposed to trust a man who lies for a living? You know I don’t believe in anything. Why would I start by believing in Robin Hoodie, a criminal?”

Bahorel snorted and shook his head, turning away, but Feuilly looked evenly at Grantaire as he said, “I don’t believe you. You’re the one who’s believed in Robin Hoodie — in Enjolras — from the start. And I don’t think that’s changed now.”

Flushing, Grantaire turned away, not wanting to acknowledge that Feuilly was right. He didn’t want to admit to them, and especially to himself, that he did believe in Enjolras. Certainly he thought that there were better things that Enjolras could do, but this, compared to some of the other things he had seen in this job…it seemed so pointless. And it made him believe in what Enjolras did now more than ever.

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

“Tell you what,” Montparnasse drawled, turning back to Grantaire. “I’ll make a deal. I’ll let your pretty boy here go, and you let me walk out of here. No harm, no foul. Easy.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras, and time seemed to slow down. For a moment, there was just the two of them, staring at each other. Grantaire’s grip on the gun wavered slightly, his fingers tightening as he looked at the slight press of the knife against Enjolras’s throat, so close to slicing through the pale, unmarred skin. Enjolras’s gaze did not waver, though, as he looked steadily back at Grantaire.

Their eyes locked on each other and slowly, so slowly that the sound seemed to echo in Grantaire’s ears, Enjolras told Grantaire, “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

He would never know if Enjolras had the same thought as him, if in that moment with Enjolras choosing between a knife and a gun he knew what he was getting in to choosing the gun, but Grantaire nodded at the words, his mouth curving into a fierce smile because for just a moment, the two of them together, they had  _won_. And so he took a deep breath, took aim, and shot Enjolras.

The bullet was expertly aimed, barely skimming the top of Enjolras’s shoulder before burying itself in Montparnasse’s arm. Montparnasse screamed and dropped the knife at the pain, Enjolras wincing as he drove his elbow back into Montparnasse’s stomach, knocking him to the ground. Then he fell on top of him, holding him there until Grantaire could rush over and snap the cuffs on Montparnasse’s wrists.

Then Enjolras scooted back, for the first time reaching a shaking hand up to his shoulder as Grantaire read Montparnasse his Miranda rights, his voice harsh and just on the edge of shaking as if he was about to lose whatever remnant of calm he still possessed. Then Grantaire grabbed his cellphone and called Feuilly. “Feuilly, we need a bus to the scene immediately. Montparnasse has been apprehended but is injured, as is Enjolras. Minor gunshot wounds, nothing too serious. Thanks.”

His voice broke ever so slightly on Enjolras’s name, and Enjolras looked over at him, his face pale but controlled. Finally, after hanging up, Grantaire managed to look over at Enjolras, his eyes suspiciously wet. “Are you alright?” he asked, a little hoarsely.

Enjolras managed a tight grin. “I’m fine, I just feel like I’ve been shot or something.”

Grantaire let out a dry, shaky laugh that sounded a bit too close to a sob, and reached out to quickly embrace Enjolras, avoiding his wounded shoulder. For just a moment, Enjolras allowed himself to relax against Grantaire, but then the moment was over, and Grantaire pulled away, his expression hardening. “I need to go secure the rest of the upstairs. Will you be fine with him?” he asked, jerking his chin towards Montparnasse, who was lying on the ground groaning pitifully.

Smiling a little wryly, Enjolras tried to shrug and winced. “Yeah,” he said through gritted teeth. “We’ll be fine.”

Grantaire nodded and drew his gun again before slipping out. Montparnasse let out another low groan and turned to glare at Enjolras. “Your fucking boyfriend shot me,” he spat, his eyes narrowed in pain. “I wouldn’t have thought you of all people would be dating a fucking cop.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Enjolras said automatically, though there was a certain reluctance as he stared at the door as if waiting for Grantaire to reappear, though he didn’t have any idea what he would have said to Grantaire if he was there. “And besides, he shot me as well.”

* * *

 

Rue Plumet, previously empty, was now filled with cop cars, their lights flashing red and blue throughout the darkened street. There was no sign of Les Amis, which was for the best; they had done their part and there was no need for them to be involved with the official side of things.

Enjolras sat in the back of one of the ambulances, blanket wrapped awkwardly around his good shoulder while a paramedic tended to his other shoulder. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to look away, instead looking over at where Grantaire was talking to Senator Valjean, who shook Grantaire’s hand before coming over to Enjolras and holding his hand out to shake as well. “It seems I am in your debt,” Valjean told him seriously. “I don’t know what he intended to steal — though I do have a pair of very old, very valuable candlesticks that he could potentially have been after.”

Grantaire exchanged glances with Enjolras before telling Valjean quietly, “We’re not entirely sure that Montparnasse was planning on stealing something. He was armed, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’s undertaken violent actions.” He was about to elaborate, but then Bahorel called over to him. “Excuse me,” he said, leaving Valjean and Enjolras alone.

Valjean smiled down at Enjolras. “Thank you for what you did in there as well.”

Shrugging, Enjolras looked away, flushing slightly. “It was nothing,” he muttered, not wanting to take credit for what happened, knowing that he didn’t deserve credit for what had happened.

“I don’t think it was nothing,” Valjean said mildly. He nodded at Enjolras’s shoulder. “ _That_  at least wasn’t nothing.”

Enjolras looked up at him, his expression grave. “No, you’re right,” he said quietly. “That was atonement.”

Valjean was quiet for a long moment as he looked at Enjolras carefully. Then he clapped him on his good shoulder and told him bracingly, “Just make sure that you don’t spend so much time atoning for your past that you forget to live a life that you don’t have to atone for. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s someone I need to say hello to.”

Enjolras watched as Valjean crossed over to Agent Javert, who did not look particularly happy to see him. He sat back as the paramedic finished on his shoulder and closed his eyes, mulling Valjean’s words over. Living a life that he didn’t have to atone for…did Enjolras even know what that meant anymore?

He had never intended on needing to atone for anything — certainly he had never felt guilty for stealing the things that he had, knowing that it went towards the best cause and for helping and assisting those in need — but ever since Grantaire had come into the picture, he had found plenty of things that he needed to atone for, needed to somehow make better. Grantaire pushed him to be better in more ways than one, and he couldn’t help but feel that he still needed to make up for his betrayal.

As if reading his train of thought, Grantaire walked back over. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly, his expression neutral as he looked down at Enjolras. When Enjolras managed a small smile, Grantaire’s tone turned brisk. “Are you up for a trip downtown? We’ve got the location of Montparnasse’s stash house and could use your help going through things.”

Enjolras sat up straighter, not even wincing at the twinge in his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m good. A stash house, huh? One of many, or the only one?”

“Only one from what we can tell,” Grantaire said, his tone turning almost cheerful. “Bahorel was a little…ah…forceful with Montparnasse, and it seems the information is valid.” When Enjolras glared at Grantaire, the words ‘police brutality’ on his lips, Grantaire rolled his eyes. “He did absolutely nothing illegal or against the books. He’s just damn intimidating when he wants to be, especially when the perp is half out of it from a gunshot wound.”

Though Enjolras didn’t smile, he at least shrugged his good shoulder and nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”

* * *

 

“Holy shit.”

Grantaire words were matched by Bahorel’s low whistle as they glanced around the cavernous warehouse that acted as Montparnasse’s stash house. Piled high were numerous crates and boxes, all of which were filled with a variety of priceless artifacts, stolen paintings, statues, and more. Bahorel bent over and pulled a massive emerald broach from an open container and held it up. “Do you think this is my color?” he quipped.

Enjolras snorted, unearthing a da Vinci he recognized as having been stolen from one of the most prominent families in the city. “Damn, this must be worth millions,” he muttered, setting it aside. “All of this is worth so much. And of course it’s all just going to go back to the wealthy who’ve already cashed in on their insurance.”

“Actually,” Grantaire said mildly, holding up an ornate silver cup and squinting at the detail work, “the FBI is going to catalogue every item and ensure that it gets back to its proper owner — including museums or countries from which the items were originally stolen. And if no proper owners can be identified, I’ve asked that the items be donated in exchange for a few key donations from museums to certain funds aimed at helping the poor and disenfranchised.”

Enjolras turned to gape at him, the pearl necklace he was holding slipping from his fingers. “Can you do that?” he asked, his voice coming out higher than he intended it, and he blushed accordingly.

Grantaire’s lips quirked in a small, almost victorious smile, and he shrugged. “It helps when you work within the system. Gives you a few advantages and a few favors to call in. Besides, they’d just sit in an evidence vault otherwise, and I don’t think anyone wants that.”

Thoroughly abashed, Enjolras ducked his head. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he muttered. “I thought—

“I know what you thought,” Grantaire interrupted, and his smile disappeared, replaced by something far more serious. “And as I’ve told you from the beginning — you should have trusted me.”

He picked up a carton and carried it to a different part of the warehouse, leaving Enjolras staring after him, curious look on his face.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering continuing this 'verse but haven't decided yet. If you'd be interested in reading more from this AU, kindly let me know! 
> 
> Penultimate chapter.

———  _Four Months Ago_  ———

 

“Would you  _please_  stop pacing?” Feuilly sighed, glaring up at Grantaire, who had in fact been pacing for the past twenty minutes. “You’re driving me up a wall. The facial recognition software takes as long as it takes, and wearing a hole in the carpet is not going to make it go any faster.”

Grantaire knew that Feuilly was right — of course Feuilly was right, Feuilly  _always_  seemed to be right about these kinds of things — but still, this could be potentially one of the biggest breaks in the Robin Hoodie case.

It had been a particularly well-planned operation, if Grantaire was willing to congratulate himself (which, until Enjolras was behind bars, he wasn’t). In cataloguing Enjolras’s stash house, Grantaire had found one part of two-piece silver service, and figured that the other piece must be in a different stash house. He had a hunch that Enjolras would try to fence it quickly rather than wait and potentially be caught with it, and so told Bahorel to work his contacts to keep an eye on potential fences that Enjolras had worked with in the past.

What could have been a risky gamble based on a hunch turned out to be perfect, and they had not only found the fence, but had been able to put a tail on Enjolras. Now, they were awaiting confirmation of facial recognition for the security camera outside the apartment building at which they thought Enjolras was staying. A positive ID meant enough evidence for a warrant and a raid; a negative ID meant back to square one.

The computer beeped and Feuilly swiveled back around as Grantaire held his breath. Then Feuilly turned back to face him, grinning. “We got him.”

Grantaire exhaled in a woosh, feeling at once eminently relieved and strangely hollow at the words. “I’ll let Javert know,” he said quickly. “We’ll put in the paperwork for a warrant tonight and hopefully get it approved tomorrow or the day after, and then it’s just a matter of getting the raid ready.”

“And I’ll let Bahorel know,” Feuilly said, pulling out his cellphone. “Of course, he’ll probably take this as an excuse to stay at the bar and drink in celebration. The asshole.” Grantaire grinned at that, knowing that Bahorel hadn’t been  _too_  upset at spending a lot of time hanging around Musichetta’s bar. “We also need to find out if Enjolras has any bolt holes or safe houses, in case he runs.”

Grantaire’s grin turned a little grim. “Leave that to me,” he said, clapping Feuilly on the shoulder. “Good job.”

He headed straight to Javert’s office, mentally listing all the official documents that needed to be put into place to ensure this operation would be a go — Grantaire normally hated paperwork and avoided it at all costs, but being promoted to ASAC had brought its own paperwork with it and besides, he wanted this all done by the book. “Agent Javert?” he asked, knocking on the door.

Javert looked up and gestured for him to come in. “Agent Grantaire. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you. Take a seat.”

Grantaire instead lingered in the doorway. “Sir, we’ve discovered what we think is Enjolras’s location, and I wanted to get a jump on filing the paperwork with the DA’s office and—”

Holding up a hand for silence, Javert interrupted with a quiet but commanding, “Have a seat. Agent Grantaire.”

Grantaire sat, feeling something like dread curl in the pit of his stomach. “Sir, has something happened? Have I done something wrong?”

“No, nothing like that,” Javert assured him, steepling his fingers in front of him as he frowned slightly at Grantaire. “I’m less concerned with what you’re doing and more concerned with what you’re going to do.”

There was a pause as Grantaire tried to make sense of Javert’s words. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said hesitantly.

Javert sighed and glanced at the old, faded most-wanted poster that hung above his desk, and Grantaire followed his gaze. Javert had never explained the poster or its significance, and Grantaire had never asked who the convict pictured there was. Shaking his head, Javert turned back to Grantaire, his expression unreadable. “Have you given any thought to what you will do when the case against Enjolras is closed?” When Grantaire just looked startled, Javert smiled slightly. “I thought not.”

He leaned forward, suddenly serious. “The hardest thing you will ever learn as an FBI Agent on a major case like this is that once the case is closed, it’s closed. You’ve given years of your life to this, and once he’s brought in, everything is out of your hands. He could be convicted and go to jail for years; he could be acquitted and go right back to a life of crime. But your time with the case will be done.” He paused before adding in a softer voice, “Whatever you do, you cannot become attached.”

Grantaire just stared at him for a long moment, his mind blank. He had never considered it, to be honest, had never thought about what would happen when Enjolras was finally behind bars. So much of his life these past few years had been dedicated to hunting him down that the prospect of not having that constant seemed…well, almost frightening.

He took a deep breath, trying to put his whirling thoughts in words. “I don’t believe in much,” he started slowly, “but I believe in the system. I always have. And when it comes to turning Enjolras in, I will surrender him and all the baggage that has gone along with him willingly. There is nothing more important than justice.”

Javert smiled slightly and shook his head. “Just keep that in mind.” His tone turned brisk and business-like. “Now, what was it you were saying about paperwork?”

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

After Montparnasse’s capture, things seemed to go back to business as usual. Of course, for Enjolras and Grantaire, there had never really been such a thing as business as usual, which meant things went back to being just as awkward and tense as they had been. Though things were now wrapped up with Montparnasse, Grantaire, Feuilly and Bahorel were now turning their attention on Patron-Minette writ large, using the information that Montparnasse had willingly turned over in order to reduce his sentence as part of a plea bargain.

“No honor among thieves,” Enjolras had snorted when Grantaire had told him the news.

Grantaire had just stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Well, you would know.”

That had been the last time they had spoken about anything not explicitly case-related in a week, and though Enjolras hated to admit it, he was miserable.

He came in everyday on time, did his work like he was supposed to — though he wanted to gouge his eyes out at the thought of four more years of forged bonds and counterfeit paintings — and mostly just kept his head down. Bahorel and Feuilly were friendly enough, even more so after Montparnasse’s arrest, but Grantaire was as cold and distant as ever.

What made it worse was that Enjolras had no idea how to go about fixing it. He had fucked up, and he knew that — he  _knew_  that all the way to his core — but he couldn’t take back what he had done and he had no idea how to convince Grantaire that though the result had been keeping Grantaire from stopping him going after Le Cabuc, the action itself had been motivated by far more.

Specifically, by the surprising feelings that he had somehow developed for the sarcastic, cynical man responsible for his arrest.

But Grantaire was so much more than that, and Enjolras knew that now — he was nuanced, he was complicated, he was infuriating and brilliant and wonderful and awful and so many things all rolled up into something that Enjolras wanted to spend the rest of his life unravelling, and that in and of itself was a frightening thought.

Enjolras had dedicated so much of himself to the cause, to the persona of Robin Hoodie, stealing from the rich in an attempt to bring the system to its knees, and he had never intended to give that up and so had never even considered romantic entanglement. But now that he had been forcibly removed from the game, the possibility of romance was…not entirely unappealing.

Well, maybe he had to to work on the romance part if the best words he could come up with were “not unappealing”.

Still, the only word he had for what he was feeling towards Grantaire was, if not love, then at least strong affection. And that meant the only word for the pain that gripped him every time Grantaire walked past his desk without making eye contact or acknowledging him was heartache.

And Enjolras, as a man of action, was tired of doing nothing about it.

He could have asked Combeferre or Courfeyrac for advice on what to do — well, maybe not Courfeyrac — or even Feuilly or Bahorel, but Enjolras was nothing if not stubbornly determined to do things his own way.

Which was how one night about three weeks after Montparnasse’s arrest, Enjolras found himself standing alone on a street corner in a quiet neighborhood. He looked left and right, took a deep breath, and took a single step into the street, just over the curb — not far enough to be in any danger from cars that drove past, but  _just_  far enough.

There was no immediate response save for the little green light on his tracking anklet switching to red. Enjolras glanced down at his watch before crossing his arms in front of his chest and waiting, ignoring his phone, which buzzed insistently in his pocket.

A little over half an hour later, he was still waiting, but he saw a figure approaching and uncrossed his arms, suddenly nervous. It was Grantaire, just as he had hoped, and he did not look amused. “You’re over your radius,” he told Enjolras in lieu of greeting.

“I know,” Enjolras said, taking a deep breath. “I figured it was the only way to get you to actually look at me and talk to me.”

Grantaire scowled and shook his head but didn’t reply, which Enjolras took as permission to continue. “I know that I’ve messed things up, and I  _don’t_ know how to fix things. But Grantaire…” He trailed off, unable to articulate everything he wanted to now that he was here in this moment. “I was wrong, about so many things. I was wrong not to trust you, I was wrong not to believe in you, but most of all, I was wrong about you. I was wrong in assuming that you didn’t want to change things, I was wrong in assuming that you don’t believe in anything, because you’ve proven me wrong as much in your words as your deeds these past several weeks.”

Grantaire scowled deepened. “There was only one thing I ever believed in,” he pointed out quietly. “I believed in you, and  _you_  proved  _me_  wrong. I don’t believe in you anymore.”

“But I think you should.” Grantaire snorted but Enjolras barrelled forward. “I will spend the next five years of my life trying to prove it, but I’m willing to try to believe that the system isn’t as broken as I thought it was. I still want to change things, but I’m starting to believe that we can change things within the law, rather than against it.” He hesitated before adding what may have been the most honest thing he had ever said to Grantaire: “You’ve made me believe that.”

Though Grantaire’s scowl did not lessen, something seemed to change in his expression, something softening in his eyes. But then he asked quietly, “What about running?” When Enjolras just stared at him, he elaborated, a heated edge to his voice, “I overheard you talking to Courfeyrac. You…you were planning on running.”

Enjolras just stared at him, wondering how to explain, wondering if he  _needed_  to explain when he had absolutely no intention of running now. Instead, he said quietly, “Why the hell would I run when you’re here?”

Grantaire’s expression flickered, and he reached out to grab the front of Enjolras’s shirt and physically yank him back on to the sidewalk, pulling him into a fierce kiss. Enjolras kissed him back, encircling Grantaire’s neck with his arms and letting Grantaire pull him even closer. When they broke apart, Enjolras asked, laughing breathlessly, “Did you really have to pull me back into my radius before you would kiss me?”

“I  _am_  an FBI agent,” Grantaire reminded him, though he was smirking. “Now shut up so I can kiss you again.” Enjolras’s laugh was quickly swallowed by Grantaire’s mouth back against his, and as he wove his fingers in Grantaire’s hair, he really couldn’t care if they were in his radius or not, so long as they were there together.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this will almost certainly be carried on in some fashion, whether with some one-shots or another multichapter fic. I haven't decided yet (and thus will probably end up doing both. Sigh. My life).
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, kudos'd, commented, etc! I have truly loved writing this fic and I'm glad people have enjoyed reading it as well!

———  _Three Months Ago_  ———

 

Enjolras was alone, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and if these past three years were any indication, whatever supreme being there may or may not be had it in for Grantaire, and he took a deep breath, shifting his grip on his gun. And of course, Enjolras was standing in front of the window, looking out at the perfect sunset that framed him and his golden hair and  _goddamnit_  why couldn’t the man just have been a model and saved them both a load of trouble?

Sadly, Enjolras had chosen a much more difficult route, and so Grantaire once again tightened his grip on his gun as he stepped into the room. The small, rational part of him said that he should wait for backup, for SWAT to arrive — or even just Feuilly and Bahorel to arrive — but the larger part of Grantaire was selfish, and wanted this moment to himself.

He cleared his throat, all thoughts of what he had always planned on saying in this moment disappearing as Enjolras turned to face him, arching one perfect blonde eyebrow at him. “Enjolras.”

To his surprise, Enjolras smiled slightly, crossing his arms in front of his bare chest, and Grantaire had to practically tear his eyes away. “Agent Grantaire,” Enjolras said, his voice almost musical, and Grantaire hadn’t known that it was possible to swoon from a voice alone. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Grantaire did not answer, instead taking another step forward, the gun in his hands not wavering. “Are you armed?” he asked, voice rougher than he intended.

Enjolras frowned. “Of course not,” he practically spat, holding his hands out to his sides. “You’re welcome to come search me if you’d like.”

Tempting though that offer was, Grantaire instead shook his head and holstered his gun. “That won’t be necessary. You’re not one for guns, after all.” He cocked his head slightly as he examined Enjolras carefully. “You’re not one for a lot of things I’d normally associate with criminals.”

“Nor are you for a lot of things I’d normally associate with an FBI agent,” Enjolras pointed out.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “How much did Joly tell you about me?”

Enjolras smirked at him. “Enough.” He shrugged and ran a hand through his blond curls (Grantaire tried  _very_  hard not to stare). “You know a lot about me, so it seemed only fair that I learn some things about you.”

“And what kind of things were those?” Grantaire asked, honestly curious, though he paused and said quickly, “How about you put a shirt on before we talk more? Unless you want me to arrest you shirtless.”

Enjolras’s smirk widened, and Grantaire remembered suddenly Joly’s theory that he was in love with Enjolras, and his heart seemed to race at that recollection. But then Enjolras shrugged. “Will you not arrest me if I do?”

Grantaire snorted. “Yeah. Right.”

“Worth a try,” Enjolras said with a grin, crossing the room to grab his t-shirt from where it was draped over a chair. “And Joly told me what he thought was important — that you were smart, and that you were observant, and that you had a better chance of finding me than any other FBI agents he’d met.” He winked at Grantaire. “And he wasn’t wrong on the last part, now was he?”

Grantaire relaxed slightly at that. “Definitely not wrong about that.” He glanced around the mostly empty room, eyes lingering on the rather suspicious-looking cot clearly acting as Enjolras’s bed. “Nice safe house, by the way. Very, uh, retro-minimalist. Or something.”

Enjolras chuckled. “Well, when you give away just about every penny you’ve ever stolen, your limited budget only goes so far. Besides, it’s probably still nicer than jail.”

Grantaire looked pointedly at the only chair in the room, a rusted metal folding chair. “Yeah, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“How did you find me, by the way?” Enjolras asked, sounding more curious than anything as he looked at Grantaire. “By my estimation, SWAT should be storming my apartment today, and it should take another day or two before you even find out about this location.”

Grantaire shrugged, though he couldn’t stop his slightly smug smirk. “I have my ways. Which is to say, Joly told me.”

Enjolras’s expression darkened. “Joly wouldn’t do that.”

“He would if I held a gun to his head.” Grantaire’s tone was light, almost matter of fact, and he raised a challenging eyebrow at Enjolras.

Enjolras looked startled, just for a moment, and then amused. “ _You_ wouldn’t.”

Grantaire managed a small smile. “No. I wouldn’t. Not a real gun anyway. But a metaphorical gun, well, that’s another story.”

Enjolras’s smile turned cold. “Even if you threatened him, Joly wouldn’t betray me.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t threaten him. I threatened you.” Grantaire couldn’t help but smile slightly at the look of utter confusion on Enjolras’s face, glad that for once he had gotten the upper-hand on him. “I told Joly the truth, plain and simple. Either he could tell me where you were so that I could arrest you first, or after SWAT breaks into your apartment and doesn’t find you, you would be listed as a fleeing suspect, thus authorizing any law enforcement official to use whatever force necessary to detain you.” He shrugged, his expression softening. “I gave him two options, and he chose the one where you don’t get hurt. I’d like to think he chose well.”

“So you don’t want to see me hurt?” Enjolras asked sharply.

Grantaire frowned at him, his expression darkening. “Why in the world would I want that?”

Enjolras gave him a look, as if it was obvious. “You’re an FBI agent,” he said quietly. “Your entire job is dedicated to taking down people like me. It only stands to reason that you wouldn’t be…overtly fond, shall we say, of someone in my position.”

Grantaire’s frown deepened. “Fond has nothing to do with it,” he pointed out, though his heartbeat quickened again at the thought. “I don’t particularly want to see  _anyone_  hurt. My job is not to hurt criminals, my job is to keep them from hurting others and to stop those who are.”

“That’s certainly one way of putting it,” Enjolras murmured, looking closely at Grantaire. “I guess Joly didn’t tell me everything about you.”

“To be fair, I don’t know everything about you,” Grantaire pointed out. “I don’t even know your real name. The name ‘Enjolras’ doesn’t have a paper trail until you were, what, eighteen? So, I mean, any details you want to share…”

Enjolras smirked again. “Don’t worry, Agent Grantaire, I’m sure we’ll have _plenty_  of time to get to know each other.”

Grantaire matched his smirk evenly. “That’s right, you’re looking at what, five to fifteen years? Plenty of time.” His tone turned brisk and businesslike. “Now, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to arrest you before SWAT and backup gets here.”

“If I  _allow_  you?” Enjolras repeated, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize that you somehow needed my permission to arrest me.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Technically, if you surrender yourself to an officer of the law before I officially arrest you, you’d be turning yourself in peacefully. It goes a long way with the prosecutors and judges. Could reduce your sentence.”

Enjolras hesitated. “And I have to allow you to arrest me?”

“Well, it is  _voluntary_  surrender,” Grantaire pointed out, smirking. He pulled his cuffs out. “You have to give me permission, or else I have to arrest you forcibly. So…do you permit it?”

This time, Enjolras barely hesitated before placing his hands behind his back. “I voluntarily surrender myself to your custody, Agent Grantaire.”

Grantaire snapped the handcuffs around Enjolras’s wrists, trying not to show how much it was affecting him to finally be able to touch the man he had sought for so long. “I suppose I should thank you,” he said lightly. “After all, you gave me the chase of my career.”

Enjolras laughed and shook his head, glancing at Grantaire over his shoulder. “You probably say that to all the perps that you arrest,” he teased.

Grantaire just shook his head, smiling. “Nope. Just one.”

He was about to say more, but at that moment, SWAT burst through the door, yelling at both of them. Enjolras glanced back at Grantaire, eyes wide, but Grantaire held his hands up to show SWAT that he was unarmed. “I’m Agent Grantaire of the FBI,” he said, his voice loud but calm. “Enjolras is unarmed and peacefully turned himself in to my custody. You can lower your weapons.”

Of course, SWAT ignored him, swarming forward to pat Enjolras down, and Grantaire gave a brief moment of mental thanks that he made Enjolras put a shirt on, because the sight of that many sets of hands against Enjolras’s skin would not have been pleasant. “He hasn’t been Mirandized,” he told the SWAT officers loudly, hoping one of them would hear him. “And please don’t forget that he’s in FBI custody!”

As one of the SWAT officers thankfully Mirandized Enjolras, Feuilly and Bahorel slipped into the room and made their way over to Grantaire. “What happened?” Bahorel asked.

Grantaire shrugged. “He surrendered to me.”

“Why would he do that?”

Shrugging again, Grantaire ran a tired hand through his hair. “Maybe he thought he could trust me. Maybe he was tired of running. Who knows?”

Feuilly clapped him on the shoulder. “Whatever the reason, congratulations, boss. You got him!”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said vacantly, staring after Enjolras as he was lead away by another FBI agent. “Yeah. I got him.”

 

———  _Present Day_  ———

 

For the first time in a long time, Grantaire didn’t feel nervous at all sitting across from Javert in his office. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that Javert didn’t seem to approve of happiness in general, Grantaire would probably be whistling, or humming, or something of that ilk. As it was, he could barely contain his grin.

Of course, all that changed when Javert turned to level a stare at him and ask in his dryest voice, “Have you fallen in love with your confidential informant?”

Grantaire almost choked, and the look he gave Javert must have answered his question without him having to say a word because Javert just shook his head slightly, frowning. “I can’t tell you what to do. I can tell you what FBI policy mandates, but if I know anything about the relationship between agent and CI, not much I say will affect that.” His gaze flickered up to the old wanted poster that hung above his desk before moving back to Grantaire. “What I can tell you is that it’s a dangerous path to walk. The line between CI and criminal is a fine one, and one that most CIs cross far too often, and you can’t let him pull you over that edge.” He paused as if debating with himself before saying simply, “You can be a con or a man, but you can’t be both.”

Sitting back in his seat, Grantaire shook his head, smiling slightly. “Respectfully, sir, I disagree. I might have agreed with you at one point in time or another, but Enjolras…” His smile widened and softened. “Enjolras is a special case.”

Javert sat back as well, his expression neutral. “That’s your decision to make,” he said calmly. “I won’t say anything so long as your relationship does not interfere with the work that you do here. As far as I’m concerned, what happens outside of the office is none of my business.” He pulled a file towards him and flipped it open. “You and Enjolras already have one of the highest arrest rates of the Unit. Don’t let that change.”

“I promise that it won’t,” Grantaire told him, standing and offering his hand to shake. “Thank you, Agent Javert.”

After a moment, Javert shook his hand. “You’re welcome,” he said, a little gruffly. As Grantaire left, he saw Javert look back up at the wanted poster, and he thought he saw Javert reach for the phone. But then his own phone rang, and Grantaire grinned when he saw who was calling. “Enjolras.”

“Agent Grantaire.” Enjolras’s voice was light and cheerful and everything Grantaire had always wanted to hear. “I heard we have a case on this fine morning? Other than the case of the missing FBI agent from my bed this morning?”

Grantaire grinned. “I had an early meeting with Javert and didn’t want to wake you from your beauty sleep. Since you obviously need it.”

Enjolras snorted. “Hardy-har. Where do you want me to meet you?”

“Meet me at this address.” He rattled off an address uptown before telling him excitedly, “It’s an art forgery case, so it should be pretty fun.”

Laughing, Enjolras told Grantaire easily, “I think I’ve had just about enough of your idea of fun over the last few weeks.”

It was Grantaire’s turn to snort. “Well, be that as it may, meet me there in twenty. If you’re on time, I may even let you have some of my coffee.”

“Mmm, you had me at coffee,” Enjolras purred.

“That was literally the last word I said,” Grantaire laughed. “I’ll meet you there.”

True to his word, Enjolras was waiting for Grantaire when he showed up, and he accepted the cup of coffee with a gleeful look on his face. “Mmm this almost makes up for you not being there when I woke up this morning,”

Grantaire sighed and shook his head, not dignifying it with a response. To his surprise, Enjolras snaked the hand not holding coffee around Grantaire’s waist, pulling him in to kiss him. “Now  _that_  made up for you not being there,” Enjolras murmured, grinning.

Grantaire pushed him away, his face burning. “We’re working,” he hissed, smoothing the front of his shirt. “You know we can’t do this while on the job.”

“Oddly enough, this wouldn’t exactly be the first time I’ve broken the law,” Enjolras pointed out, grinning when Grantaire just sighed. He pulled Grantaire close and kissed him again, and this time, Grantaire let him, at least for a moment.

Then he pulled away again, but reluctantly, and told him sternly, “Enough of that. We’ve got work to do.”

Enjolras grinned and gestured towards the house. “After you, Agent Grantaire.”

“You just want to ogle my ass,” Grantaire told him with a smirk.

Gasping comically, Enjolras told him in a mock-affronted tone, “How dare you, sir. I will report you for sexual harassment.” Grantaire just raised an eyebrow at him, and Enjolras grinned. “Point taken. Besides, I  _was_  going to ogle your ass.”

Grantaire’s expression softened. “I love you, you know,” he said, aiming for a conversational tone, though it came out more sincere than anything.

“I know,” Enjolras said, his voice soft. “I love you too.”

For a moment, they both just looked at each other, then Grantaire cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said, a little gruffly. “Let’s go catch some bad guys.”


End file.
